


conflicted by the very air i breathe

by writing_addict



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: (hopefully!), Amestris, Angst, BAMF Riza Hawkeye, Brotherly Love, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Family Feels, Found Family, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt Alphonse Elric, Hurt Edward Elric, Hurt/Comfort, Illiteracy, My First Work in This Fandom, Out of Character, Parental Riza Hawkeye, Parental Roy Mustang, Paternal Roy Mustang, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, THE ONLY ROMANCE IS ROYAI AND THAT AIN'T THE FOCUS OF THIS FIC EVERYTHING ELSE IS FOUND FAMILY, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Trauma, but now it's By Design, comment moderation turned on because of a troll that won't leave me alone, from a bucketload of traumas, hand-wavy medical procedures, just assume everyone's hurt in this, like y'all have no idea i went ham on this one, mostly. and only with one specific character. but still., no romance I REPEAT NO ROMANCE, please be gentle! i'm new to the fandom, the man is such a dad, updates weekly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2019-10-14 20:37:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 117,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17515493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_addict/pseuds/writing_addict
Summary: "'Can I give you something, Fullmetal?'Ed blinked at him through the sheen of tears, brow barely furrowing, before nodding ever-so-slightly.And Roy—Roy inched forward and wrapped his arms around the shivering child, combing one hand through his hair as he pulled him into a hug. He feltlight, even with the automail, too light and too thin and shaking too much to not have gotten a cold or something of the like. Ed stiffened, whimpered, and Roy’s heart stopped in his chest, wondering if he’d gone too far, if he’d hurt Fullmetal, ruined everything—Edward curled into the embrace, buried his head in his shoulder, and burst into tears."Or:Edward Elric vanishes after what was supposed to be an ordinary mission. A year later, Roy Mustang gets a call that changes everything.





	1. the light through my window from afar

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I'm writing_addict--either addict or blade is fine, i respond to either--and I'm truly honored and excited to publish my first piece in the FMA:B fandom! I started reading the manga a few months ago and was absolutely hooked, and when I found out the anime was on Netflix, I jumped at the chance to watch it. Needless to say, my mind was absolutely _blown! _The masterful storytelling, the gorgeous animation...it was incredible.__
> 
> So...here I am, I guess, with my first little contribution to the fandom! Hopefully I managed to write the characters in-character and got the smaller details right, but as I said, I'm new to the fandom, so I might mess up. Please, feel free to offer your advice (but please do so constructively. No needless cruelty/attacking, please) so that I can better write the wonderful characters Arakawa created.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 2/25/19: I've decided to add the songs I think best suited to each chapter to the chapter notes for new readers (and old ones, too!). The first chapter's is this: [Take Me Home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NLRUlbyH_D0) by Pentatonix.

It was raining when Roy Mustang got the call.

The world turned gray and silver and smoky-black by clouds and thunder, every moment ticking sluggishly on as the world was drenched in rainwater. The office reflected the grim weather—but then again, _grim_ was all they’d been for a long, long while. For a year and two months, at least ( _one year, two months, twenty-three days)._

His team had more reason to hate the rain than most. Beyond his inability to make use of his flame alchemy in the weather, it had been raining just like this when they’d _failed_. When they’d let a fourteen-year-old _child_ disappear into mists and rain, thinking genius and skill would bring him back to them as it always had before. When he hadn’t come back, and hadn’t been seen since.

When they’d let the Fullmetal Alchemist go.

The search had been obsessive. At first, multiple squads had been dedicated to tracking down Fullmetal and bringing him back, even the higher-ups recognizing such a high-level prodigy as an asset too vital to lose. One by one, as time went on without a single lead and a thousand dead ends, they had dropped off— _no, given up is more accurate_. They mourned the prodigy lost to the military, declaring him M.I.A, missing or dead or a deserter (though no one was unwise enough to mention the third theory around him). That is, all but Mustang’s squad.

All but the people who needed him back the most.

It was a slow day, the papers of the now-rather-illegal search spread before him. A pile of necessary reports grew larger and larger on the corner of his desk, forgotten, some spilling onto the couch from the length of his continued denial. The frustration was pulsing, clawing at the inside of his skin. He dragged his hands through his hair with a sigh, staring at the words he’d read a thousand times as though they might now yield some magical key to his subordinate’s location.

They didn’t, of course. They never had before, and the worst part of himself was starting to wonder if they never would, if Fullmetal really was lost forever, if he’d let him and Alphonse and every damn member of his team down _again._ His fingers twitched with the urge to burn the ever-taunting papers, a quiet hiss of annoyance escaping as he lowered his head into his hands—only to be jerked back up as the phone rang.

_Probably another call from Command,_ he thought, reaching for the receiver wearily and bringing it to his ear. “Colonel Mustang’s office, Roy Mustang speaking.”

And there was—a _sob._

A sob, and a tiny whimper, and a little gasp of, _“C-Colonel”_ in a voice Roy had never expected to hear so small and fragile, so… _broken._ But it was _his_ voice, and he couldn’t stop to think about the details, not now, not when it came to _this—_

“Fullmetal—Fullmetal, is that you?” There was a small noise, like the boy’s breath hitching in his lungs, and then—and then Fullmetal began to _cry,_ his shaking voice filtering through the receiver and plunging Roy into a new mystery, a new _hell._

“Edward, where are you?” _Don’t ask what happened. Don’t make demands. Just get him back._

There was more noise outside, a hand rapping at his door, questions filtering through in a dozen voices ( _Hawkeye Hughes Falman Havoc Breda Fuery_ Al), but he ignored them, clutching the receiver like it was a lifeline. Maybe it _was,_ he thought dazedly—a lifeline to the child he’d failed. _Just get him back_.

“D-don’t _k-know—_ phone b-booth—” There was a shuddering gasp, and a thump on the other end, like his legs had given out. _“H-hurts—_ w-want Al, p-please—”

Edward Elric had just admitted to being hurt—hurt, and _terrified,_ if the whimpering sobs were any indication. Fullmetal, who called him _Colonel Bastard_ and had no concept of _do as you’re told,_ who didn’t know the meaning of the word subtle and bore true agony and guilt and uncertainty better than most adults, was crying into the phone and begging for his brother. He must have been in _so much pain_ to actually be _begging_ for relief from it.

If Edward was openly _crying_ from fear and pain, that meant he was in serious trouble—seriously _broken,_ perhaps. Panic and worry began clawing their way up his throat and Roy choked them back, tightening his grip on the phone. _Calm and reassuring. Calm and gentle. Calm for Ed._

He’d claimed responsibility for the kid the second he was brought into the military, had seen him soul-dead in a wheelchair, had guarded the young alchemist from the higher-ups who wanted to sink their claws into him. He’d seen him come back from every mission, burning bright and fast and fearless and hiding a soul of shadows and broken glass. He’d _promised_ that kid he’d see his quest through all the way to the end. That he’d _be there._

There was no way he could turn his back on him now.

“We’re coming, Ed, I swear.” There had to be a way to trace the phone call--something _, anything_ to link them to where their missing piece was _._ “Do you see anything around you? Anything you can use to point us in the right direction?”

A wet, hacking cough and another sob, and then—“B-big s-s-statue—s’a d-dragon. A-an’—an’ a…a…” A sniffle, another sob. “C-can’t ‘member wha’ it’s _c-called—”_

_Shit, shit, shit_ , this kept getting worse and worse, didn’t it? “It’s okay, Ed. Are there any signs nearby?”

“S-stop s-sign—somethin’ for a…a…r-radio…radio s-station?”

Radio station, stop sign, dragon statue, phone booth. “Stay put, Ed. We’ll find you, okay? Don’t leave that phone booth no matter what.” _Calm and comforting calm and comforting calm and comforting._ “Do you want me to put Al on the phone?”

At that, Fullmetal burst into tears all over again—probably a yes. Roy wasn’t going to risk having them _not_ speak and losing him again. “Alphonse!” he shouted through the door.

The younger Elric slammed the door open almost immediately, metal footsteps clanking as the rest of his staff filed in after him despite having not been asked for. Roy couldn’t really fault them for it. Had one of them gotten the call, he wouldn’t have waited for orders either. He held the phone out to Al, the armor nearly trembling as those leather gauntlets reached for the receiver. “It’s for you.”

Al practically _snatched_ the phone from his hand. _“Brother?”_

Roy turned away as Fullmetal’s wail echoed through the room, loud enough that all of them could hear it even through the phone. Six horrified gazes met his, and all he could do was offer a sharp, bitter smile. “Lieutenant Hawkeye, get me a map of East City. I need you to mark down the locations of all radio stations and phone booths in the area. We’re looking for a booth near a crossroads and a station, most likely with some kind of statue nearby. Hughes, Havoc, we’re heading out now. Breda, Falman, you stay; Fuery, when Hawkeye’s finished, you join the search.”

There was no hesitation, not even a moment to respond with a _“yes, sir!”_

They’d waited long enough. There was no time left to lose.

_We’re coming, Edward Elric._

* * *

 

They nearly missed him.

Roy would admit that he’d been driving a bit like a madman, hitting every place he could possibly recall with the landmarks Ed had mentioned, but he hadn’t thought he’d nearly drive right past him—not until Havoc banged on the back of his chair and hissed something about blonde hair, which had resulted in the fastest U-turn he’d ever attempted and a rather terrible parking job in the middle of the street. Sure enough, there was a slumped figure in the dimly-lit telephone booth across the street, the phone dangling off its hook. It wasn’t clear enough to make out much beyond a yellow blur, but--

The figure lifted its head, and something in Roy froze solid at the sight of hollow golden eyes, dead and dull and _shattered_. _Edward—_

“Roy,” Hughes said sharply from the passenger seat, and he jolted, realizing he must have spoken out loud. His best friend looked utterly serious for once, eyes dark and jaw set with an emotion he recognized as _rage._ “ _Go._ We’ll be right behind you. _”_ Havoc nodded, his usual grin gone and replaced with the same furious protectiveness, and, well, Roy didn’t exactly need much more encouragement than that.

In a heartbeat, he was out of the car and sprinting for the phone booth, ignoring the raindrops that pelted him as he ran for that tiny bit of shelter and the child within. He skidded to a halt just in front of the door as the quiet, incomprehensible babbling became clear, no sign of Al’s voice on the other end—had the booth run out of time, then? Fullmetal probably hadn’t had more than the bare minimum _cenz_ to make the call to his office; he must’ve panicked when it cut off—was _still_ panicking, from the sound of it. He couldn’t see him all that well through the condensation covering the door’s glass panes, not much besides blurs and silhouettes, but it was _enough._

Gently, he knocked on the door. The wounded, soft cries abruptly cut off. “Fullmetal? It’s me, Roy.” He hesitated, before adding, “Colonel Bastard, remember? Can I come in?”

Nothing. Then, suddenly— _“M-Mustang,”_ and then Ed was crying, he could _hear_ it, and there was no possible way he could sit here and watch and wait any longer, not with Fullmetal shattering in that stupid phone booth. He wrenched the door open, slipped inside and closed it behind him, instinctively shuffling into the corner to give Edward as much space as possible.

Then his eyes landed on Ed, and something in him turned to _ice_.

Fullmetal looked smaller than ever, curled in the opposite corner with the phone dangling from the cord a few inches in front of him. A massive coat draped over his otherwise bare frame dwarfed him, made him appear even _tinier_ —and God, he was so _frail_ , small and too-thin and shivering like a leaf in a hurricane.

Red welts dotted his (visibly showing against his skin, _when was the last time he ate?)_ ribs, that fragile body dotted with scrapes and bruises and scars. One tiny fist scrubbed childishly at his eyes as he cried and cried, blonde bangs twice as long as when Roy had last seen him, effectively hiding his face. The other…his other arm was _gone._

_More than the arm is gone,_ Roy thought distantly, the words echoing through the icy shock and fiery rage starting to chase each other through his veins. _So much more than just that damn arm._

“Fullmetal,” he tried gently, kneeling before the shivering, sobbing child; Ed flinched back, but lowered that small, quivering hand slightly, peering up at him with a whimper. Roy tried for a smile, reaching out, ignoring the pulse of anger that repeated _this is wrong all wrong he should be shouting and cursing and telling me not to coddle him, not—not this, never this._

But _this_ was happening. _This_ was Edward Elric, up-close-and-personal, broken and afraid and desperate.

… _This_ was a child in need of help, just like that hollow little eleven-year-old boy from all those years ago.

Slowly, hesitantly, Roy pulled off his glove and held out his hand—disarmed, safe, welcoming. _Don’t spook him. Don’t you dare risk losing him. Not again._

Ed made another small, pitiful noise, tears streaking down his cheeks, and tucked the big coat more tightly around his small body. Something about the little movement made Roy’s heart ache and tear and _hurt_ in his chest, and he swallowed thickly, barely keeping his wavering smile in place.

“I bet you’re cold, Ed,” he started, not quite sure where he was going with this, just that he needed to say _something_. “Havoc and Hughes are waiting just outside with the car—you remember them, right? It’ll be warmer in there, and then we can go see Al and get you something to eat.”

Ed just pulled the hood of the too-big coat over his face, huddled in the nest of thick wool, hand pulled out of the sleeve and wrapped around his quivering body instead. He wasn’t sniffling or crying audibly anymore, but Roy could still see tears falling, see that too-small hand swipe at them uselessly before giving up and dropping to his side again. Something in him cracked at the sight, and a suspicious burning sensation behind his eyes made itself known. _Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry. Don’t you dare scare him away._ “C-can’t w-walk.”

Fullmetal’s voice—that was definitely his voice, but it sounded so hurt and weak and _unsteady_ . Sliding over the words as if he didn’t quite know how they were supposed to sound, stumbling over sounds and syllables, nothing like the vicious, shockingly _eloquent_ teen he remembered. Roy swallowed back the urge to set the world aflame for breaking Edward Elric down to _this,_ choked it back and took off his other glove, holding out his other hand. “I can carry you.”

_Please let me carry you. Please let me help you._

Slowly, oh-so slowly, Ed lifted his head, enough for huge, sad golden eyes to peek out from behind overgrown bangs. “G-gonna see A-Al?”

_Oh, god…_ “Yeah, Fullmetal, we’re going to see Al.”

Ed sniffled, lower lip wobbling. “M-miss him.” Tears were welling up in those shining, aureate eyes once more. “S’all my f-faul’—h-hurt ‘im—w-wanna go h-home—”

_Home—Risembool, or to Al?_ “Can I give you something, Fullmetal?”

Ed blinked at him through the sheen of tears, brow barely furrowing, before nodding ever-so-slightly. And Roy—

Roy inched forward and wrapped his arms around the shivering child, combing one hand through his hair as he pulled him into a hug. He felt _light,_ even with the automail, too light and too thin and shaking too much to not have gotten a cold or something of the like. Ed stiffened, whimpered, and Roy’s heart stopped in his chest, wondering if he’d gone too far, if he’d hurt Fullmetal, ruined everything—

Edward curled into the embrace, buried his head in his shoulder, and burst into tears.

 


	2. angels don't give up on me today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " He wanted Al, and he wanted to run away, and he wanted to curl up and disappear forever and ever and ever, but—
> 
> But he was still here. In bits and pieces and little torn-up scraps of paper and glass, fragile and lost and broken, but _here _, and not in the cell, not screaming, not being taunted, not thrashing and wailing and begging for it to _stopstopstopstopstop. _____
> 
> ____The tiny scraps of Before-Brave-Strong-Not-Scared-Ed whispered that maybe, for now, that was victory enough._ _ _ _
> 
> ____New-Dumb-Scared-Weak-Ed just thought it hurt too much."_ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get a bit of Ed's P.O.V. in this chapter! It was fun to write him all rambly and panicked--and to give the first inklings of what happened to him in that year of captivity. Enjoy!
> 
> Song of the chapter: [Inner Demons ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPJSkSn7rt0) by Julia Brennan

Ed could feel himself being passed from one person to the next to the next once Mustang _(m’sorry m’sorry won’t ever be bad again don’t leave me m’sorry,_ his mind chanted at the sight of the man, over and over and over _and over)_ brought him to the car. The Colonel murmured names to him, ones he barely processed-- _Havoc, Hughes, friends, safe._ Havoc said, “Hi, Chief,” very softly and gently (Havoc’s hands shook, and he wondered why he looked so _angry_ and _sad)_ , and then Mr. Hughes gave him a big hug ( _friends,_ he tried to remind himself, tried not to sob and scream and shove the man away) and buttoned the coat around him (because Ed couldn’t do it himself, because he was stupid and broken and couldn’t even remember words or react without instinctively crying and wailing and begging for someone to fix it, fix him) and let him curl up in the backseat all bundled up.

At least his stupid brain hadn’t thought they were enemies. At least _They_ ( _dark eyes, darker laughter hurtshurtshurts leave me alone)_ hadn’t poisoned his memories of _them_ , hadn’t _made_ him scared of them—he _was,_ but he could think through it, just a little bit.

He knew who they were and that they didn’t _mean_ to hurt him and that he _could_ trust them even though they were big and scary and intimidating. Ed was a little bit proud of himself for not losing it entirely when Havoc’s face had gone all dark and vicious and angry. He—he might’ve cried a _tiny_ bit, but that was _much_ less than usual when he was scared now, so maybe once he saw Al he’d go back to normal. Maybe he’d be _fixed_.

(He wouldn’t. He knew he wouldn’t, that there was no coming back from what _They’d_ done to him. But it was okay to pretend, right?)

Ed curled up in the warmth of the thick, woolen jacket, pressed himself against the softness of the leather seats and rested his head on the window, peering out at the streets through rain-soaked glass. Buildings and lights sped by, parks and manors, and _signs._ So many signs for all sorts of things, the squiggly lines of what he knew must be letters indecipherable to him.

Letters. They’d erased his knowledge of the _freakin’ alphabet—_

He’d known it before, had sat in that cell and cried when They laughed over him being unable to read even the simplest picture books, the lessons he’d learned oh-so long ago about reading and writing and even his stupid _letters_ completely gone from Their meddling.

He hadn’t thought it would hurt that much if he ever managed to get away—hadn’t thought about anything except surviving ‘til tomorrow, letting them take apart the bits and pieces of his brain so they wouldn’t destroy it altogether. Hadn’t thought about anything but maybe going _home_ one day.

And here he was, about to go home, and starting to cry again over some dumb signs that he _knew_ he wouldn’t be able to read.

“Hey, Chief—Chief, you okay?” Ed jolted back at the voice, hand coming up to cover his mouth instinctively as his gaze darted to Havoc. His face was warm, and kind—but it wouldn’t be if he found out, Ed realized, bone-chilling horror crawling like ice through his veins. He was supposed to be a genius, a—a— _he couldn’t remember the other word_. No one would want a “genius” who couldn’t read or remember big words, especially not one who was supposed to be an alchemist.

Al might not like him anymore—or maybe Al would _hate_ him for ruining everything again, for being unable to get their bodies back and now unable to research a way to fix it and he’d screwed everything up all over again, it was all his _fault—_

“ _Ed.”_

Mustang’s voice again. But that wasn’t right—Mustang always called him _Fullmetal,_ and only Fullmetal, so maybe Mustang was really _really_ mad (Ed wouldn’t blame him, he was bad and he made people angry and it was his fault, all his fault, _always always always)_. He rubbed at his eyes wildly, trying as hard as possible to silence his cries as his teeth sank into his bottom lip.

“Edward,” the Colonel repeated, and Ed forced himself to open one eye, fingers sliding into his mouth instinctively as he chewed on them in a futile attempt to calm the bubbling, nauseating anxiety swirling sickeningly in his gut. Slowly, he managed to bring his gaze to those dark eyes, pressing as far back into the soft leather of the seat as possible and begging whatever force might be listening to let it swallow him whole.

Then, Mustang smiled. Ed could only stare, wide-eyed and shocked into silence as he stared at him. Paralyzed--he was _paralyzed_ by fear and hope and a dozen other, more complicated things he couldn’t remember the words for.

The smile _hurt,_ all sad and shaky and upset, but there was _real warmth_ in it, and af—affec— _fondness._ “You’re safe now,” Mustang said, and his voice didn’t shake _at all,_ strong and fierce and reassuring. “I know it’s really scary and it doesn’t feel like it yet, but you _are,_ and we— _I_ —am gonna make sure that you stay that way, okay, buddy?”

Buddy was a word people used for really little kids, Ed thought—but it felt really _comforting,_ and the ironclad determination in his voice was too, so he nodded, remembering after a moment to pull his fingers out of his mouth. He wiped them off on the inside of the coat, drying his tears with the sleeve by his empty automail port as Hughes chuckled quietly and nudged the Colonel. “Eyes on the road, Roy.”

Warm green eyes found his, filled with concern and kindness and all sorts of things he didn’t deserve, and—

Ed blinked as Hughes gave a very exaggerated eye roll and winked at him as though they were sharing a secret before turning to the front again, he and Mustang bickering quietly. Trying to make him laugh, maybe—probably—maybe _not_.

Probably not.

He didn’t know anymore, and he didn’t want to laugh either. He wanted Al, and he wanted to run away, and he wanted to curl up and disappear forever and ever and ever, but—

But he was still here. In bits and pieces and little torn-up scraps of paper and glass, fragile and lost and broken, but _here_ , and not in the cell, not screaming, not being taunted, not thrashing and wailing and begging for it to _stopstopstopstopstop._

The tiny scraps of Before-Brave-Strong-Not-Scared-Ed whispered that maybe, for now, that was victory enough.

New-Dumb-Scared-Weak-Ed just thought it hurt too much.

* * *

 

They got food at a—a _food place_ . He couldn’t remember the name for one of those stores, the ones where people served you already-made food and you paid for it and ate it there (it was stupid, _he_ was stupid, it was such an _easy word_ and he couldn’t remember it _at all)_.

The word still wouldn’t come when they pulled into the parking lot of one and Mr. Hughes looked over to ask him if he liked Xingese food—and found him crying all over again, trying to remember the words that his brain _erased (_ they’d gotten upset when they saw him yanking on his bangs and biting his fingers again. He wasn’t really sure why).

He couldn’t even find the words to tell them what was _wrong,_ because people besides _Them_ knowing meant he’d be useless, and useless people were hated, and people who were hated were _alone._ The idea of being all alone with no one at all made little lightning-shocks of terror jolt through every single nerve. Useless meant Mustang and Hughes and Havoc and _Al_ would _leave_ and they’d _laugh_ at him for being stupid and ruining _everything_ and he wouldn’t be able to fix it like he _promised_ and he would _alwaysalwaysalways_ be alone.

(It wasn’t like he didn’t deserve it, but if they were gone, then _They_ would come back and take him and finish—finish what They started.)

Everyone had tried to comfort him and he felt worse and worse and _worse,_ because he shouldn’t be crying so much, he was _fourteen years old_ and that was definitely big enough to not cry over not knowing something, but he _was_ and that had only made him cry _harder._ It went on and on and on like that for—he didn’t know how long, but by the time the tidal wave of complete and utter panic dissolved ( _gonnaleavegonnagetmegonnahurthurthurtm’scaredm’scaredwantAlwannagohomesorrysorrysorry)_ , Havoc and Mustang were back with food and then everyone was trying to coax him to eat something.

He didn’t, of course. _Couldn’t_ . He still let them put a carton of noodles in his lap and tried not to spill it all over the car, guilt and fear and a hunger he couldn’t let himself feed (They would know and when They knew They’d hurt him because he was only supposed to eat what _They_ gave him and if he was disobedient They’d bring out the Bar and that _hurt_ so he couldn’t wouldn’t _won’t)_ hollowing out his insides. Once or twice, while they were looking, he managed to nibble at one of the noodles, trying to tell his stupid stomach that he wasn’t _there_ anymore so he could eat whatever he wanted, but he’d only ever get a few bites in before his stomach rebelled and started trying to throw up whatever it thought wasn’t supposed to be in it.

The little paper box was still full of food when the car stopped again. He stared down at it as Mustang opened the door to the back seat. The slimy guilt and freezing terror starting swirling in his gut all over again as Mustang furrowed his brows at it, mixing into a nauseating slush that brought tears to his eyes all over again.They’d give him _food_ and were taking him _home_ and he was such a pathetic brat that he couldn’t even _eat it. Ungrateful bastard ungrateful uselessuseless—_

Mustang didn’t say anything, though. He just smiled (an awful smile, sad and pitying and all sorts of things that made the few scraps of Old-Brave-Ed flare up in rage before another wave of panic quashed the embers entirely like freezing rain to the sparks of a fire) and held out his arms, white ignition gloves still gone (because Ed was so _stupidly, pathetically scared_ that he couldn’t let Mustang have the tools to protect himself, _selfish idiot allyourfault)_.

“We’re almost there, Fullmetal,” he whispered, and the sludgy, icky feeling in his gut subsided at the quiet reassurance in those words. “Can I carry you again?”

Oh. _Oh,_ because he still couldn’t walk—because his freaking _leg_ had gone dead and heavy and cold in the rain and it hurt too much to even _stand (uselessuselessuseless what a pitiful creature)._ He rubbed at his eyes futilely as the ever-present burning swelled up and spilled over, hot tears tracing down his cheeks as the reminder of the pain brought it beating its way out of his subconscious. He wanted to say no, to curl up in the car and sleep forever, but—but _Al._ Al was up there, in the Colonel’s office. He could—he could be brave and strong for Al, right?

_Right?_

“’K-kay.”  

Ed was scooped up, tucked against Mustang’s chest as the oversized wool coat was wrapped more tightly around him. Some part of him recognized, distantly, that he should be kicking and screaming and yelling at Mustang to put him _down_ , _I can walk I’m not useless—notuselessnotuselessnoteuselessplease—not a little kid, Colonel Bastard._ That part of him _wanted_ to—but the idea of _screaming,_ being disobedient, defiant, _badbadbad_ made the world spin around him all over again and he buried his head in Mustang’s shoulder, unable to find the strength to look any of them in the eyes.

_(feisty quick-tempered defiant rude train that out of him small weak obedient, they said, and he’d sworn that they wouldn’t but they did and now look at him)_

Dog of the military turned into—into _what?_ A sniveling lapdog? A _child?_ Into—into—

He didn’t know _what_ he was anymore.

_Pathetic,_ Their voices taunted, and he clung to Mustang as tightly as he could, willing the warmth his once-upon-a-time superior radiated to dig into the frost of his bones and melt the slushy, poisonous swirl of all these awful _feelings_ in his gut. A hand rested on his back as he huddled as close as possible, soothing and grounding and all sorts of things that Edward Elric, Fullmetal Alchemist, alchemic genius and scientific prodigy, shouldn’t need or want or be willing to—to _beg_ for, like a tiny child after a nightmare. _What kind of soldier cries so easily, little alchemist? What kind of hero fears anything and everything?_

Not a soldier. Not a hero. Not even Edward Elric anymore, not really. Maybe—maybe a ghost of the _real_ Edward Elric. A helpless, useless, _broken_ ghost.

_Sounds about right._

“Sir?”

Lt. Hawkeye’s voice. Ed nearly looked up at the sound, before registering the horror and rage seething beneath the word and curling up as tightly as possible, face hidden vitals protected _nohurtplease._ Someone sucked in a harsh breath, another person whispering something that sounded almost like a prayer. Mustang’s hand started rubbing circles on his back, gentle and almost quieting the roar of _theyhateyoutheyhateyoubadbadbad._

“Lieutenant,” he greeted. “Is Al—”

“He’s in your office, sir. He’s been trying to redial the phone for the better part of twenty minutes now.” The sickening swirl of emotion pulsed nauseatingly in Ed’s stomach again, whispering things about what a failure of a big brother he was, about his incompetence, how he _failed_ Al at every turn and couldn’t do _anything_ right. He couldn’t argue with any of the voices, because they were _right. Monstermonstermonstermonster, you’re a failure and a monster and you should leaveleaveleave you selfish brat._

They were moving again, and he dredged up enough energy to peek over Mustang’s shoulder, blinking at Hawkeye as Havoc began speaking to her quietly— _telling her exactly what a pathetic little whelp you’ve turned into._ She was still straight-backed through it all, her face carefully blank, but her _eyes—_ shadows were chasing each other through those eyes, and he tucked his face into the safety of his shoulder once again, willing himself not to cry all over again.

“Alphonse.”

Ed’s eyes flew open as heavy, hollow footsteps echoed, steel shuffling over woolen carpeting. There was a noise like someone sucking in a breath, even though Al _couldn’t_ anymore, and—

“Brother?”

Slowly, hesitantly, Ed shifted, turning his head to so that he could peer at the door without letting go of Mustang. His fingers tightened in the man’s coat at the sight before him, all gunmetal gray and scarlet soulfire and _real_ , and staring at—at—

“ _Al.”_

There was a metallic _thud_ as Al collapsed to his knees, soulfire eyes glowing as that metal coffin of a body tried and failed to weep; Ed drank in the sight of him greedily— _alivesafeunbrokennotlikeyounotlikeyou—_ as powerful arms reached toward him, held open for an embrace. Al was _alive,_ and _okay._ Still—still trapped (because of him) and hurt ( _because of him),_ but alive and reaching out to him and _notmadnotangryhereherehere_.

Mustang passed him to Al, and then his little brother was cradling him, hugging him and babbling words that Ed couldn’t even begin to understand anymore. It didn’t matter, though, not _now_ , because Al was _here_ and if Al was here that meant he was _safe_ and he was _free_ and he was—

He was _home._ **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed! Drop a kudos or a comment if you liked it, and as always, the next chapter will be out on Tuesday. Thanks for reading!


	3. we're all getting by fractured and bruised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al hesitated before nodding, soulfire eyes drifting back to his brother’s sleeping form. Roy followed his gaze, taking in the too-thin fingers twitching dangerously close to Ed’s mouth, the little tremors that ran through his body even from under every blanket in the office, the hollow cheeks and face still blotchy from tears. None of it was Ed, and yet _all _of it was, and no amount of wishing or bargaining or screaming at the sky would bring the old Edward Elric back.__
> 
>  But they—he—could protect the new one.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Tuesday, another chapter!
> 
> Song of the chapter: [Reasons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LARLZSoXpbE) by Beth Crowley

Ed, thankfully, drifted off twenty minutes after his reunion with Al, what little energy he must’ve had left spent. Alphonse absolutely refused to let go of him, Ed cradled in his arms despite Hughes’s and Hawkeye’s best attempts to convince him to let him lie on the little couch in Roy’s office. He did, however, let them wrap whatever spare blankets Havoc and Breda could dig up around the kid before he was nestled back in, Ed barely stirring in his sleep as he was essentially swaddled in blankets and coats and whatever they could spare. He looked almost _peaceful_ in slumber, face devoid of pain and fear, serene and silent. Despite everything—despite the bruises and scratches on his face, despite the snarled and knotted mess of golden hair—he looked like what he was: a _child,_ small and scared but _safe,_ finally.

“Colonel.” Al’s voice was soft, quivering every so slightly— _young,_ they were so young, both of them _far_ too young to bear such burdens. It wasn’t the first time Roy had thought it, but it was the first time it had struck him so _deeply._ “Colonel, what…what _happened_ to him? Who—”

“We don’t know.” There were few sentences he’d loathed more, but it was true all the same. There was no indication of who had done this to Ed, and Roy sincerely doubted that the boy would be in any shape to tell them when he woke. And as for what had happened, well, they wouldn’t know the full extent of that until Ed felt safe enough to trust them. Which, the pessimist in Roy whispered, might well be _never._ “We don’t know, but we’re going to do everything in our power to find out,” he promised. _We_ will _find out. And when I find the ones who did this, I’ll kill every last one of them._

Al hesitated before nodding, soulfire eyes drifting back to his brother’s sleeping form. Roy followed his gaze, taking in the too-thin fingers twitching dangerously close to Ed’s mouth, the little tremors that ran through his body even from under every blanket in the office, the hollow cheeks and face still blotchy from tears. None of it was Ed, and yet _all_ of it was, and no amount of wishing or bargaining or screaming at the sky would bring the old Edward Elric back.

But they— _he—_ could protect the new one.

“I—I think Brother’s gonna need a doctor.”

Oh.

 _Oh._ Shit.

Al was right, undoubtedly, undeniably right, and yet Roy hadn’t thought of that for a second. For all the feverish plans his confusion-addled mind had dreamt up, the strategies of hunting and killing and utterly _destroying_ those who had done this to Ed, the half-formed ideas for where he could stay and who he might trust enough to stay with, he hadn’t quite processed that Ed would need a _doctor—_ or a medic of some kind at the very least. Roy’s eyes roved over the limp form in Al’s arms, the bruises and scrapes, the feverish flush starting to creep up his neck and the way he shivered even under all those blankets. Fullmetal _definitely_ needed a doctor, but there was no way of knowing if he’d _trust_ one.

 _He barely trusted_ me; _he’s definitely not gonna trust a stranger poking around with his body, especially after…everything_.

After torture, after terror, after so much pain that he couldn’t even _begin_ to understand, the kind of hell that turned a wildfire into a tiny, barely-glowing ember. Roy swallowed thickly, willing down the revulsion and fury in his throat. _How the hell am I gonna find a doctor that’ll keep their mouth shut? How—_

Knox.

Maybe Knox wasn’t the _kind_ of doctor they needed, but he was the best option they had, the only one he could trust at the moment. If he brought in a doctor that _he_ trusted, maybe Ed would feel a little safer, too. After everything the kid had been through, the least Roy could do was provide a little comfort, try to make the world a little less scary for the boy curled up in a nest of blankets. At this point, it was the _only_ thing he could do.

Roy tried to ignore how the knowledge of his failure _burned,_ and reached for the phone.

* * *

 

To say that Ed reacted poorly to the unfamiliar face was an understatement.

In all fairness, it was at least eighty percent Roy’s fault. Knox, when he’d called and filled the man in on the favor required of him, had pointed out that waltzing into Mustang’s office on a “social call” might not be the best way—or even a _good_ way—to keep the higher-ups from finding out and sinking their claws into the young, traumatized alchemist. He and Hawkeye left with Al, under the pretense of leaving work early due to weather or some other excuse (he could barely remember what he’d told his team to say, if he’d even told them to say anything at all—it didn’t matter, they were smart, they could figure it out) and brought Edward to Knox’s house.

The man had somehow kept a straight face at the sight of the infamous Fullmetal Alchemist brought so low, though even he hadn’t been able to disguise the pity in his eyes. Edward hadn’t woken up until Hawkeye nudged his shoulder gently and Al started whispering to him, and even then it had taken a moment, the child whimpering before managing to open his eyes. Golden eyes blinked, glazed with sleep—and then what little color had returned to his face drained away as he processed the change in scenery. Roy had perhaps a single moment to think, _oh, fuck_ as those eyes welled up with tears, terror and betrayal written all over that battered face—

And then Ed had thrown back his head and _wailed._ Wailed and thrashed and cried, nonsensical pleas spilling past his lips as he clawed futilely at Al’s arms, so tightly wrapped in blankets that he could barely move enough to squirm and struggle. Poor Al had been too shocked to respond, and before Roy could do anything the boy started yanking savagely on his bangs again, sobbing so violently that each shuddering gasp seemed to _hurt._

Terrified—Ed was _terrified,_ and it was all his fault for putting him in this damn situation.

Roy _forced_ himself to move, hands reaching and swiftly untangling Ed’s fingers from his hair, pushing down the gut-wrenching horror and rage at what had been done to his subordinate. “Ed,” he whispered, hating his voice, his inability to _understand,_ hating the fact that he had to treat Ed like a small animal he couldn’t risk spooking. “Ed, I need you to focus on what I’m saying for a second, understand?” Ed shook his head wildly, pitiful, animalistic cries escaping his mouth as he looked anywhere but at their faces, to anything except for Al and Hawkeye and Roy. _Oh god, oh god…_ “It’s alright if you don’t want to look at me, Ed. I’m just going to talk for a little bit, okay?”

Ed just cried _harder,_ if anything, and Roy beat down the panic steadily rising in his chest. _Say something say something say something—_ “I’m so sorry we moved you without telling you where we were going.” Gently, he squeezed Ed’s hand, trying to find the words to convey…everything. “I was trying to get you to a doctor, and I wasn’t thinking about how you’d react. I didn’t realize how startling it would be for you. It must’ve been really scary waking up in a new place after all that, huh?”

Ed whimpered, shaking so violently that Roy could hear his teeth chattering, feel the tremors that shook his small body through the grip on his hand—and then _nodded._ It wasn’t much of a movement, barely a dip of his chin, but his gaze had lost the look of overwhelming terror and he’d nearly stilled in Al’s arms. He was _responding_ to this—to the comfort, the apology, the words. _Keep going. Keep going. Keep him calm._ “Dr. Knox is just here to take a quick look at you, okay?” he soothed, squeezing his hand again. “Just to give us something for the cuts and bruises, and check to see if you have a cold or something. That’s it. Al will be here the whole time.”

Fever-bright eyes peered up at him, searching his face. “N-no l-leavin’?”

Those words—those two short, _simple_ words were stumbled over like he was trying to recite Xingese poetry, and Roy had the horrible thought that Ed’s speech capabilities seemed to be _diminishing._ Maybe it was fever and exhaustion—he _prayed_ it was fever and exhaustion—but he’d at least been able to form _sentences_ before and now…now all he could force out were two words. As though whatever part of him had made him a _prodigy,_ had made him one of the unusual, the _elite_ (a word he despised, but there was no better one to describe Edward Elric’s mind) had been broken and beaten and bruised into submission, and all that was left was the trembling shell before him.

 _Oh, God,_ this seemed to get worse and worse with every passing moment. The small, stuttering voice pounded at his head like the awful clang of some dread bell, reminding him over and over what he failed to do, what Ed was suffering through with every single breath. Roy swallowed thickly, trying to push down the nauseating mix of worry and guilt. “Al’s not going anywhere, Fullme—”

Ed whined quietly and shook his head, small hand tightening around Roy’s bare one. “A-Al stay. _Y-you_ stay.” Tears streaked down those hollow, bruised cheeks, golden eyes burning with a shattered sort of fever as he seemed to search for the words before whimpering, “P-please?”  

It came out sounding more like “ _pwease”,_ and some part of Roy’s heart melted despite the heavy guilt in his chest. “Of course,” he rasped. “ _Of course.” Like hell am I leaving you behind again._ “Do you want Lt. Hawkeye to stay too, Ed?”

Golden eyes drifted toward where Hawkeye stood, stock-still, gray eyes filled with a mix of guilt and concern that was becoming all-too familiar to Roy. There was another tiny nod, nearly imperceptible, but it was enough.

_It’s the best we might ever get._

Knox didn’t say a word throughout the exchange, nor did he speak after directing them to sit Ed on the cot pressed up against the wall. Ed, too, was quiet, only whimpering when he was removed from the blanket nest and perched on the edge of the bed. He swayed unsteadily as soon as he was set down, and ended up leaning again Roy, Al sitting cross-legged behind him as Riza settled on his other side. He was quiet throughout the procedures, though he cried quietly and curled up against Al when Knox examined his empty automail port. The scrapes and bruises were cleaned out and bandaged, the worst of the dirt wiped from his face, a pot of antiseptic handed to Hawkeye with half-grunted instructions on when and how to apply it.

“The kid’s only got a bad cold right now,” Knox said bluntly, wrapping up the lacerations around Ed’s too-skinny wrist with an air of finality; the kid didn’t even react to the words, golden eyes blinking hazily as he rested his head against Hawkeye’s shoulder. “Could turn into pneumonia if you’re not careful, though, so keep that fever down and make sure he stays hydrated and hopefully he’ll kick it.”

“And the automail?” Roy kept his voice low, wary of Ed’s reaction; thankfully, he seemed too out of it to respond, seemingly mere seconds from sleep. If they had to remove it, Ed would be absolutely helpless, barely able to do so much as _crawl_ away from his enemies, and he was certain that its removal would scare Ed shitless and break what little trust he’d placed in them.

“I’m no expert, but there’s no sign of infection.” Knox eyed the boy with a strange sort of pity in his eyes, his face otherwise as grim as ever. “He’s probably too malnourished and in too much pain to move it properly, though.” He tilted his head to the side, dark brows rising. “But what are you gonna do with him?”

“Pardon?”

Knox shrugged, leaning against the wall. “He’s not fit for military service, and I doubt a fourteen—”

“Fifteen,” Roy interrupted, his heart twisting in his chest at the admission. _It’s been a year, a year of failing him, letting him suffer—a year of letting him down._

“—fifteen-year-old that travels as much as the Fullmetal Alchemist does is holding down an apartment somewhere. Plus, if you’re trying to hide him from the military, hiding him in your offices is a shitty idea.”

“It’s true,” Al mumbled—Roy didn’t know how a suit of armor managed to _mumble,_ but he did, soulfire eyes fixed on his brother, now fast asleep on Hawkeye’s shoulder. “We—we don’t have anywhere to go. And I’ll—I mean, I’ll be fine, but Brother…he needs _somewhere,_ and not—not a hotel room or something, but a house, and people to look after him.” The armor trembled, a leather gauntlet hovering over Ed’s thin, bandaged shoulder as if scared to shatter the child made of broken glass before him. “And I—he needs more than just m-me now—I can’t—I’m not _enough_ —”

“He needs you most of all, Al,” Hawkeye said quietly, and those soulfire eyes snapped to her. “He needs the one person he knows for sure will never betray him, who will love him no matter what. We can give him a place to stay and the protection he needs to recover, but we can’t him give security and _hope_ without you.”

Hawkeye knew better than anyone, Roy recalled, the vitality of hope to survival. Some days, hope was all they had.

Al gazed at her, before making a noise like a choked sob, bowing his head and wrapping one metal arm gently around his big brother’s sleeping form. Hawkeye rested a hand on top of the gauntlet, Ed still curled up against her, a bit of color back in his sleeping face. He looked peaceful, safe—almost _happy._

And Roy knew in that moment he’d do anything to keep that look from fading again.

“What wonderful timing. I was thinking of taking a leave of absence anyway.” He glanced over his shoulder at Ed, quiet and shivering in sleep. “And coincidentally, I have an extra room.” _I can take him._

“What a coincidence, sir. I’ve been planning a brief vacation for a while now, and I, too, have an extra room.” Her hand moved, gently rubbing Ed’s side. “I might have to pay you a visit or two. Just to discuss our schedules and such, you understand.” _I’ll help you look after him, and I’ll take him when you have to go back._

Roy stared down at the child curled on the cot, so fragile and _broken,_ and managed a small, grim smile. “Sounds like a plan, Lieutenant Hawkeye.”

_We’ll do it together._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading the latest installment! As always, another chapter will be out on Tuesday. Please drop a kudos or a comment if you enjoyed it, and I hope to see you next chapter!
> 
> (Also, if you want to check out more of my writing and are itching for some found-family feels, give [The Legacy Job](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17680706/chapters/41702984) a look! )


	4. a child's spark light up the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hawkeye’s slate-gray eyes drifted to the three of them, and Ed wondered hazily how odd they looked, the broken Fullmetal Alchemist, the hollow child cursed by his own big brother, and the infamous Flame staring at the two children with some strange mix of terror and protectiveness on his face. 'Just stay with them. I’ll be back in a moment.'”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Field trip to Mustang's place! Ed is very much not having a good time. Neither is anyone else, for that matter.
> 
> Song of the chapter: [Toxic Thoughts](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PNjIg80OZZ4) by Faith Marie

When Ed woke up, they weren’t in the office or in strange house where the scary-faced man had tended to his wounds (and made him cry so _ridiculously_ much—though it wasn’t really the man’s fault; it was _Ed’s_ for being so _stupid)_. They were in the car again, Al’s hulking form squished awkwardly in the backseat with Lt. Hawkeye quietly reading something next to him. He was wrapped up in blankets again, too, toasty-warm and snuggled up tight as though someone had swaddled him up in them again and—

“Ed.”

He whimpered at the noise, unable to stop himself, and screwed his eyes up again. A gentle hand squeezed his shoulder, another brushing his back, and he forced himself not to let the tears that welled up spill over again, bringing his hand up to bite down on his fingers. The hand batted his down gently before he could sink his teeth into them and he whined, the noise grating on his throat as it slipped out. _Hurthurtshurts make it go away._

There was a soft, sympathetic noise, and a voice spoke—Hawkeye’s voice, and it was _her_ hand on his back, and she sounded so _kind_ and _understanding_ and all sorts of things Ed wasn’t supposed to provoke from people that it sent the tears spilling over again. “We know it hurts, Edward. We—I’m so _sorry.”_ The lieutenant’s voice cracked where it had remained steady years before, even when he was twelve years old and only little less hollow than whatever he was _now._ It cracked, and maybe _she_ was cracking, and it was _all his fault_ for being so foolish and weak and _pitiful._ He should open his eyes—he should smile, try to make a funny comment, walk—

But the mere idea of doing _anything_ of the sort right now made panic and fear swim through the haze of pain, dizzying and overwhelming. He whimpered again, small and helpless. Someone next to him— _the Colonel?—_ hummed smoothly and rubbed his shoulder, hands smoothing over bandages that certainly hadn’t been there—oh. The scary doctor—because Ed had been hurt and that wasn’t supposed to be _normal_ . Because good, normal people got doctors when they were hurt and tried to fix the little pieces into a whole picture.

Ed managed to lean into the touch, the hunger for contact overwhelming the fear. He managed to ignore the jolting of his nerves, instincts begging him to try and open the car door, to crawl away somewhere free of pain and loss and betrayal ( _getawaygetaway gonna hurt you againagainagain)_. “You’re gonna be staying with me for a little while, okay, Fullmetal?”

No—no, he couldn’t do that, couldn’t waste their time, inflict all of—of _this_ on Mustang, he had to—he needed—

 _Mustang is safe,_ the voice that sounded a tiny bit like who he’d been before whispered. _You need to be safe. He’s safe._

Cautiously, Ed opened his eyes, blinking in a futile attempt to clear his vision of the fuzzy veil draped over it. It didn’t work, but he could see enough—Al, soulfire eyes aching with sorrow, Hawkeye, hand still rubbing his back, Mustang, concern written all over his face. Safe. All these people were _safe._

His throat closed up when he tried to speak, nothing escaping but a small, wounded noise. He’d spent so long _sleeping_ and being _useless,_ but he was still so, so tired, and his leg hurt _so much,_ shocks of cold agony running up his spine and piercing through his skull whenever he tried to do much more than crawl on it. His vision blurred even more as tears welled up all over again and he tugged on Mustang’s sleeve, whining pitifully. _Inside—wanna go sleep—want Al—please don’t leave me?_

Somehow, as though whatever god or monster or dark force ruled the world had taken pity on him, Mustang seemed to understand. “Of course,” the man murmured, and suddenly Ed was being scooped up again, his whimpers cut off as Mustang cradled him with shocking, terrifying gentleness, nudging the car door open. “Al’s staying too, don’t worry. No one’s leaving you behind, Fullmetal.”

If Ed had the strength to look up, the energy left to look and look _deeply,_ he would have seen something like _not again_ gleaming in his eyes--in _all_ their eyes. But he didn’t, and he didn’t _want_ to move, not when everything hurt and his stomach ached and he felt seconds from collapsing unconscious all over again ( _weakweakweak, no one wants you)._ Not when the echoes of _Them_ were still whispering his ears, and trying to talk made his throat and head pound in agony, and he was crying all over again like some stupid little _kid._

He buried his head in Mustang’s shoulder, whimpering as the cold air bit at his bare flesh, raindrops drip-drip-dripping down his skin and mingling with the tears. Someone made a noise that was vaguely soothing, sweet and soft and quiet and so different from the mea— _cruel_ ( _use the words you know, the big ones, stop talking like a little kid, you’re not and you should_ act _like it, stand and fight and train and be strong and brave and useful again)_ laughter he was used to, mocking words whispered in a dozen languages vanishing from his mind for a moment as gentle hands massaged his back soothingly and an umbrella clicked open.

The biting chill of the rain on his shoulders and neck dwindled as the umbrella blocked it off, and he heard Mustang murmur something to Hawkeye, who responded in hushed tones. He didn’t bother trying to figure out what they were saying, too busy trying not to swallow and aggravate his throat or go into one of those awful coughing fits again. The umbrella clicked closed soon enough, and the cold air dissipated as a door closed behind them, leaving him—wherever they were.

 _I don’t care—don’t care where it is, s’long as it’s not—not_ there, _please don’t take me_ there. The memories started beating at his already aching head, the cold, dank cell, the stench of rot and the constant pain and the white-hot flares of agony from when they used the Bar ( _because you were badbadbad if you weren’t such a defiant little brat this wouldn’t_ happen) crowding his mind. A whimper escaped, and he pressed against Mustang as tightly as possible, head hurting too much to even lift to check that Al and Hawkeye were still there ( _don’t leave me don’t leave me please don’t leave me)._

“Almost there, Ed,” Mustang whispered, and then there was a sound like jingling coins, metallic and harsh on Ed’s ears. He flinched, burrowing as deep as he could into the nest of blankets he’d been wrapped in, only to be jostled into a different position as a door opened and he was carried inside. Clanking footsteps and steady thumps followed— _Al and Hawkeye,_ still there, still with him, still putting up with all—all of _this._

_You shouldn’t have to._

_I’m sorry._

The coherency was fleeting, and Ed let his mind sink back into exhausted rambling and terrified nonsense as he was set down on a couch. Mustang moved to step back— _step away leave go abandon scaredscaredscared—_ and before Ed could stop himself, he tightened his grip on the man’s sleeve, frightened whines breaking past his lips despite his best efforts. _Don’t go,_ he wanted to beg, but his voice wouldn’t cooperate. _Please don’t go._

“Fullmetal, kiddo, I need to go get you something to wear.” Mustang looked—looked almost _helpless,_ helpless and confused and utterly out of his depth, and Ed _hated_ himself for making the forever calm, smug bastard his hazy, patchwork-y memories of _before_ dredged up flounder so much. He couldn’t bring himself to let go, though, couldn’t convince himself to unwind his fingers. Tears steadily filled his eyes all over again, began to slip down his cheeks. _Don’t hate me don’t hate me please—_

“I’ll do it, sir,” Hawkeye offered, and in that moment Ed wanted nothing more than to burst into tears of gratitude. Mustang’s face seemed to reflect a similar notion, relief replacing the look of utter confusion as Al quietly shut the door to the apartment. Now that Mustang had moved back a bit, Ed could make it out a little better—there was a small but rather nice kitchen, a sort of living room area connected to it, and a hallway that branched off in two directions. He didn’t have the energy left to wonder where they went, huddling against the arm of the couch as Al made his way over and sat beside him. His brother didn’t bother with words, and Ed adored him for it, for the quiet, accepting silence, the warmth and comfort offered. Al just slung a gentle arm around his shoulders and let him nestle against that metal body.  

“My clothes are in the—”

“I can figure it out, sir.” Hawkeye’s slate-gray eyes drifted to the three of them, and Ed wondered hazily how odd they looked, the broken Fullmetal Alchemist, the hollow child cursed by his own big brother, and the infamous Flame staring at the two children with some strange mix of terror and protectiveness on his face. “Just stay with them. I’ll be back in a moment.” Then she was striding off, boots thumping on the floor, grip white-knuckled around the umbrella. Ed wanted to reach after her and beg to come too, if she wouldn’t stay ( _greedy selfish you have Mustang and Al and you still want more and more and more, badbadbad)_ , but he clamped down on the instinctive terror that came with watching someone turn their back on him and slumped against Al.

A hand brushed his forehead, careful to avoid the bandages the doctor had placed on the cuts and bruises, and he heard Mustang curse quietly. “You’re burning up, Ed,” he whispered, and then the blankets were being unwound, one left to cover his lap. It was _cold,_ and he whimpered at the man, tears slipping down his cheeks. “God, I know, I’m sorry, but we’ve gotta keep your fever down. Al, can you get him some water?”

Water. Yes, water would be nice, he thought dazedly, a pitiful noise escaping as Al murmured assent and got up, one hand tentatively ruffling his hair before his little brother hurried off. Water was something he could count on, even in the cell—food wasn’t, but _They_ weren’t allowed to drug the water, and even if it was stale, it was _clean_ and there was a new dish of it every third day. Maybe—maybe he could even _talk_ a little after he had some water, or _try,_ at least.

Al returned after a few moments, shuffling his feet and looking remarkably small and shy for a giant suit of armor _(all your fault, all your fault, all your fault)._ “I couldn’t find the ice, so I just, um—it’s tap water. Brother, do you think—can you drink it on your own?”

He could—he _could._ He wasn’t that weak or ruined, surely, he could drink water like a—like a _person,_ he really could. But that would mean letting go of Mustang’s sleeve, and holding the cup in his flesh hand—small, and shaky, and covered in ugly, twisted burn scars that he’d heard even _Hawkeye_ suck in a horrified breath at, shameful and ruined and tainted forever by—by _everything._ By the cell and the Bar and the—the—

 _No no no no nonono._ He tried to convince his fingers to unwind from Mustang’s sleeve, but they wouldn’t, no matter how hard he tried. Tears rising, sobs welling up in his throat from the _shame_ of it all, he shook his head. _M’sorry m’sorry m’sorrysorrysorry._

“I-it’s okay, Brother. We’re—we’re here to help, right? Whatever you need.” He didn’t miss the way Al stumbled over the words, guilt and self-loathing pooling in his belly. He was supposed to be—to be _strong,_ and _brave,_ and take care of his little brother. He was supposed to be _better_ than this, and now—now he was upsetting Al, and being a _burden_ on everybody, _pathetic little brat you should have died in the cell._  

The glass was pressed gently to his lips, and he managed to yank himself out of the deepening spiral of terror and grief and guilt, managed to part his lips as it was tilted up and a small trickle of water seeped in. Ed swallowed, the cool, soothing liquid rushing down his throat with a tingle of icy relief, the sandpapery feeling easing a bit. Mustang’s hands wrapped around his, rubbing over the aching scars soothingly as he continued to drink, pulling away every few sips to cough. His headache was easing a tiny bit, though, and when he blinked, the world no longer looked quite so fuzzy.

His voice, though—that still didn’t want to cooperate. Still didn’t want to let him say so much as a _thank you_ to them, even though it was the only thing he _wanted_ to say. Too tired to cry about it all over again, he curled up against the couch and tentatively withdrew his hand from Mustang’s, reaching for Al instead. His little brother wrapped his gauntlet around it immediately, settling onto the couch as Ed burrowed into his side again, head swimming and body aching and so, so _tired._

Hawkeye came in a moment later, carrying a large white _something_ that was draped over his head—one of Mustang’s shirts, so big it fell to his knees easily. Ed barely stopped himself from reaching toward her and collapsing into tears all over again, begging to be carried away from pain and fear and all these icky _feelings,_ to sleep forever and ever and ever. _Someone_ lifted him, though—Al, probably, though he was too drowsy to process anything, even the rooms he caught glimpses of, one full of books and one with a radio and another door that everyone seemed to hurry past, and then—

“All yours, Fullmetal.”

It was a small room, with a dresser and a bed and a squishy armchair in the corner, a window with dark blue curtains. It was empty, unused—and it was _his._ All of it was supposed to be his, bed and dresser and squishy armchair and blue curtains and everything, s _o much of it,_ and he couldn’t stop staring, struggling to sit up in Al’s arms. This—all this was for _him._

It was too much. He didn’t deserve this much—didn’t _need_ this much, they didn’t need to do this for him, to trouble themselves, he could go back to that couch or—or even stay in the offices, or find somewhere else, he couldn’t let them do this, he _couldn’t,_ he wasn’t _worth_ all that, not with how useless and broken and stupidly, childishly _fragile_ he’d become. He opened his mouth to—to protest, or to cry, or to do _something,_ he wasn’t sure _what_ anymore—

“I was thinking you could decorate it,” Mustang said offhandedly, and Ed’s gaze snapped to him, eyes widening. “As many gargoyles and spikes as you want, all over it. Looks too bland right now, doesn’t it?” His lips quirked up into a small smile, but Ed could see the uncertainty in it, the hesitance of the offer and the—the hope.

“D-ducks.” The word slipped out before he could stop it, and he felt heat rush to his face, tears fill his eyes at how childish his voice sounded, shaking and small and hoarse from sickness. Three pairs of eyes—black, gray, soulfire red—snapped to him, and he hid his face behind his bangs as the pressure of those three stares bore down on him. Still, he managed to croak out, “W-want ducks.” Ducks were safe, and small, and fluffy and fragile, but no one hated ducks like they might hate Ed if they knew. Even _Before-Ed_ had liked ducks. Liked spikes and devil horns and scary things more, but still liked ducklings. “C-curtains,” he added, because maybe basing Mustang’s whole spare room on a duck theme was sort of babyish and stupid and all sorts of things he _couldn’t_ be.

The easy grin that spread across Mustang’s face, the small, warm smile from Hawkeye, the quiet giggle that escaped Al…Ed almost felt like he could smile, too, in that moment. “We can do ducks, Fullmetal.”

 _Safe,_ the quiet little voice that sounded somewhere between the Ed from Before and the Ed from Now whispered. _You’re safe. You’re safe, and they love you._

For a heartbeat that stretched into an eternity as he drifted off, Ed believed it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for next Tuesday's chapter! Thanks for reading, and drop a comment or a kudos if you liked the latest chapter! _Mwah~ ___


	5. 'cause i'm making this up as i go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He hadn’t known the stakes last time. Had been careless, had let his precious subordinate be broken down to the silent, shivering child in his arms, let the person that subordinate loved more than anyone else in the world nearly drive himself insane with the search. He’d stood by, believing they would be fine, and now…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, y'all! This one's a DOOZY--by which I mean, packed with angst. There's a tiny bit of fluff at the end, but Ed, Al, and Roy are all having a Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Morning (especially Ed)
> 
> I've also decided that from now on, I'm going to include a song recommendation from the playlist I made for this fic (yes, I decided to be That Bitch) for every chapter! Today's is a song that I think pretty much describes Roy (and on some level, Al and Riza) in his attempt to connect to and help Ed: [Anybody Have A Map](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=--F-nTJM4kQ)

Roy awoke to the sounds of screaming.

It wasn’t _entirely_ screaming, to be fair. There was a lot of sobbing, and babbling, and the sound of Al’s panicked reassurances echoing down the hall to his room. It was loud, and _heartbreaking,_ and before Roy was even fully aware, he was lurching out of bed and grabbing at the door. _Fullmetal—_ it had to be Ed, it _had_ to be, there was no other explanation—but _why?_ Was he just scared, or had he had a nightmare, or hurt himself, or—

 _Stop, stop—don’t panic. Keep your shit together, Mustang._ He forced himself to inhale slowly, his mad scramble for the small, usually peaceful guest room slowing to a brisk walk. _Freaking out will only freak_ him _out even more, and if there’s one thing that poor kid doesn’t need, it’s_ more _fear._

He could hear them as he drew closer, each noise drawing that strange _panic_ from his chest. Ed was sobbing violently, the pitiful, animalistic wails seeming to rip from the poor thing’s undoubtedly aching throat, cries audible over Al’s hurried, whispered comforts and questions that seemed more like pleas than anything else. “Brother—Brother, _please,_ it’s going to be okay, I can help—no—no, please don’t do that, you’re going to hurt yourself—” Ed’s choked cry was audible even from behind that closed door, Al making a noise that sounded almost like a sob of his own. That _thing_ in Roy’s heart twisted, and he sped up again, hurrying for the door.

“I’m sorry—no, Brother, you can’t, you’re gonna make yourself—” There was a horrible retching noise, Ed’s sobs cutting off before returning, albeit more quietly “—sick.” Al’s voice sounded small, small and almost _terrified—_ the poor kid had held it together well, but now that he was facing his brother all alone, it sounded like he was cracking, that dam about to burst. “Brother, I— _please,_ what’s wrong, I c-can’t help you if you don’t—no, _no,_ Ed, please don’t hurt yourself, _please—”_

Roy pushed the door open and stumbled in, skidding to a halt as Al whirled on him, soulfire eyes burning bright as the armor shook with agitation, close to tears they all knew he couldn’t cry. Ed’s golden eyes went wide, wide and absolutely _terrified_ at the sight of him, fingers knotted in his bangs and a mess of bile staining the sheets he’d been tucked under. His heart broke at the near-identical looks of absolute panic they gave him. _I should’ve gotten here faster—hell, I should’ve figured something like this would happen, especially after…after everything._

“What’s going on?” He crossed the room to crouch beside Ed, who was trembling so much his teeth had begun to chatter audibly, fingers unwinding from his bangs and winding up in his mouth _again._ No doubt it was some kind of comfort or coping mechanism he’d used to survive during that year _(a year of failing him, leaving a child scared and alone and trapped and letting him crumble into_ this, a particularly nasty voice whispered). He glanced over at Al as the armor clenched and unclenched its fists, shaking despite the warm temperate, despite the fact he wouldn’t have been able to feel the cold.

“I don’t know,” Al choked out after a moment. “I don’t—he slept okay through the night, I think, even though he was tossing and turning a lot, and he—he was fine for a moment after he woke up, and he reached out like he wanted to be picked up—” There was a shaky, audible inhale despite the fact that armor didn’t _breathe,_ wringing leather gauntlets as the words spilled out. “And then I stepped forward and he moved a little bit—and then he just started crying and wouldn’t let me come near, and he started pulling on his bangs and biting his hand and then he threw up and I—I didn’t know what to _do—”_

“Al.” Impulsively, Roy stepped away from Ed, set a hand on the younger Elric’s arm. “You did the best you could under the circumstances,” he soothed, praying that the words would ease the jagged wound he knew uselessness left behind. “It’s not your fault that this happened, and it’s certainly not your fault that Ed reacted badly. This is—this is new for all of us.” New, and _wrong,_ because Edward Elric wasn’t supposed to be crying and terrified and nearly mute, wasn’t supposed to be like this at _all,_ but he _was._ He was, and they’d all have to adjust, learn how to care for him, protect him, help him recover as much as possible. They _would._

They would. Because none of them were going to abandon Edward twice.

“M’sorry.” Roy glanced over his shoulder as Ed’s voice, small and shaking and slipping over the words so unsteadily, came from the bed. He’d pulled his fingers out of his mouth, golden eyes fixed on Al and welling up with tears. “M’s-sorry, A-Al.” That small hand swiped across his eyes, only succeeding in smearing tears all over his face. “M’sorry, M-Mustang—”

“Roy.” Eyes of gold and scarlet soulfire bore into him, wide with shock. Roy managed a weary smile. “Technically, you two haven’t been military in six months. You can call me Roy, if that’s easier.” He didn’t think he’d be able to handle watching Fullmetal struggle to pronounce “Colonel” again. “Can I change your sheets, Ed?”

Ed jolted back, face flushing as the tears in those fever-bright eyes spilled over. “Uh-uh.” He shook his head wildly as if to punctuate the point, and Roy had to keep himself from wincing as he stopped suddenly and clutched at his head with a whimper. _Headache—right. I should probably try to see if he can take an aspirin, and keep something down. And get him a bath._ “Nuh-uh. N-no.” He scrubbed his hand across his face again as the tears fell freely, quiet cries stabbing at Roy’s heart like knives. “ _N-no…”_

 God, he wished he didn’t have to insist—that he could let him go back to sleep, or just get him some broth or do something, _anything_ to make those tears stop. But he’d thrown up all over them, and after so long spent who-knew-where in such obviously awful conditions, with goddamn _pneumonia_ threatening to set in—no, he couldn’t. He _had_ to clean the sheets, at least, or get him the spare set before taking the others to the laundry. “Ed, I have to clean them so you don’t get sicker, kiddo.”

Ed shook his head again with a whimper, his face nearly hidden behind overgrown bangs. Fear—there was so much _fear_ in the kid’s every movement, every shiver and sniffle and soft noise. Fear…and _shame,_ Roy realized, eyes widening. The shame hadn’t been there yesterday (god, was it really only yesterday?), had it? There’d been guilt, and self-loathing and terror and a terrible, aching loneliness that had nearly brought _him,_ of all people, to tears, but not… _shame._

And he didn’t want him taking the sheets—

Oh.

_Oh, no._

“Ed,” Roy said carefully, cautiously, “did you have an accident?”

Ed flinched back violently, a pitiful sob escaping as he curled up tightly in the sheets, so small and fragile and _god, he was right._ No wonder the kid was so upset; to children, there was absolutely no greater shame than wetting oneself—and for all Ed had been through, all he’d braved, he was still a _child._ Pity and something like _grief_ swirled sickeningly in his chest as Ed hid his face again, sobbing quietly, and he shifted toward him, setting a hand on his back gently. He flinched away from the touch, whimpering into his knees, and Roy felt the shudder of that flinch rock through him, horror settling in his chest. _Shit—shit, shit, what the hell do I say?_

“Brother, it—it’s not your fault.” Al’s voice, soft and almost _shy,_ came before Roy could figure out what to say. Ed’s head rose a bit at that, big, teary golden eyes peeking out at his little brother’s armored body. “You—someone hurt you—” Ed shuddered at the words, quiet, frightened whines rasping from his throat, and Roy choked on the sudden, savage desire to hunt down whoever had done this to the Fullmetal Alchemist and burn them down to dust— “and you’re scared, and that’s—that’s _okay._ You didn’t choose this, or bring it upon yourself or something. Some—some _monster_ did this, and they hurt you, and _that’s_ not okay, but you’re _allowed_ to be scared and hurt and have trouble with things.” Al shifted awkwardly, before shuffling close enough to take Ed’s hand. “It was an accident, right? You didn’t mean to, and you didn’t hurt anyone, either, so…”

He looked to Roy, clearly floundering a bit now. Privately, Roy thought he’d put it better than he ever could, and had gotten through to Ed—Ed, who was looking at Al as though his little brother had hung the moon, golden eyes shining with absolute adoration. It was the closest to _happy_ that Roy had seen him look since yesterday, and he nearly managed a smile at that. “Al’s right, Ed,” he said gently, and those eyes snapped to him, wide and brimming with unshed tears, the adoration bleeding to apprehension. “Absolutely none of this is your fault. It was an _accident,_ and besides, a bit of time in the washer and dryer and the sheets will be as good as new, no harm done.”

 Ed blinked up at him from beneath his bangs, lower lip wobbling, and he hated to say it, really did, but he looked almost _adorable_ like that. Roy couldn’t help poking his nose gently, a gesture that would’ve made the old Fullmetal scream with rage and launch himself at him, one that made this Ed squeak, going cross-eyed for a moment in an attempt to follow his finger. “Besides, after a nice, hot bath, we can have some breakfast and then call Hawkeye, okay?”

He tilted his head, brow furrowing in what almost seemed like _curiosity._ Gold eyes brightened a bit after a moment, and he nodded, reaching for Roy with a quiet whine. The _look_ in those eyes made him falter, his heart twisting—burning shame, and blade-sharp terror, and… _trust._ Blind trust, as fragile as a snowdrop after the first frost and yet so overwhelmingly _desperate_ that it broke Roy’s heart to see it. He almost wished that Ed _didn’t_ trust him, _didn’t_ look at him like a knight in shining armor, like he was some kind of _hero._ He certainly didn’t deserve it. _This is your fault_ , he reminded himself, burning the image the shivering ghost of the boy who had been the Fullmetal Alchemist into his mind. _You let him down. You let him go. You let this happen to him._

“Come on, kiddo,” he murmured, the term of endearment slipping out before he could stop it, arms reaching to lift Ed up. He curled up at the touch, burying his head in Roy’s shoulder as he was pulled free of the blankets, a tiny, quivering whimper coming from Ed’s mouth. The shirt was stained too, he realized, stained with both bile and urine, and he resisted the urge to wince—not for the state of the shirt, really; he’d only ever used it as a pajama shirt and a round in the wash (maybe a few, if he was being honest), but for the state of his _subordinate_. For Ed to be so desperate for comfort, even with how much fear and anxiety he was facing (on top of the trauma the kid had been doing the exact _opposite_ of working through before he was taken, Roy realized with a strange sort of horror) ...

Roy was going to _kill_ whoever did this to Ed, and _thoroughly enjoy every second._

“I—I can do the sheets, Colonel,” Al volunteered. “I’ve used a washing machine before, I—uh, where is it?” His voice was small, gauntlets shaking as he fisted them at his sides—trying and failing to hold himself together for Ed’s sake, to give his big brother one less thing to worry about. Selfless. Both these kids were too _selfless,_ too _broken,_ too _hurt_ to be as kind as they were, had been through so much—too much—and were _still_ trying to pull themselves together and act as though everything was fine.

_Both of them. I’ll protect both of them this time._

“Thank you, Al. It’s the furthest door on the left,” he directed, repeating that promise to himself as he carried Ed— _light, the kid was still too light, he could_ feel _his bones_ —out of the room, forcing himself not to crush the boy against him as rage and protectiveness spiked higher and higher. _I will protect them. No matter what they stand against, I’ll protect them._

He hadn’t known the stakes last time. Had been _careless,_ had let his precious subordinate be broken down to the silent, shivering child in his arms, let the person that subordinate loved more than anyone else in the world nearly drive himself insane with the search. He’d stood by, believing they would be fine, and now…

Now, they certainly weren’t. The least he could do now (before he hunted down and crushed the throats of the monsters who thought they could get away with this) was put on a brave face and try to put a smile back on theirs. “Bubble bath,” he said, forcing his voice to be light and cheery, bright and warm. “Yeah, I’m thinking it’s definitely time to break out the bubbles.”

Ed squirmed, a yelp of what Roy hoped was surprise and not hurt escaping as he was set on the toilet seat. Golden eyes tracked his movements as Roy set to running the bath—he preferred showers, personally, but the bathtub was good for particularly long days, especially when he caved and broke out the bath salts Madame Christmas had bought him as a joke—wide and almost _curious_ beyond the haze of pain and exhaustion. “Bu…bble?”

Roy checked the temperature of the water—a little on the warmer side, but given how Ed was shivering, that was probably for the best—and glanced over at him. Despite everything, a small smile tugged at his lips. There was a strange (albeit terrifying) sort of innocence to the Edward Elric before him, present in the childish tilts of the head, the fractured light in his eyes, the fragile sort of false peace that surrounded him in the moments that he wasn’t lost to terror.

This wasn’t the Edward Elric he’d met in a wheelchair in Risembool all those years ago, as hollow as he’d been in Ishval—a child with the face of a war-haunted soldier. This wasn’t the boy who’d stormed into Central and attacked the Fuhrer himself, blazing up with resolve that burned away his innocence. It wasn’t the child he glimpsed when the brothers had been flipping through the only photo album they’d taken from their home before burning it down, all gap-toothed smiles and electric brilliance and sunny pride.

Dead. All those faces, those Edwards, they were dead, shed like the skin of a snake. His smile faltered at that, at the sudden, overwhelming _grief_ that roared through his chest with a screech like the brakes of a runaway train.

_Dead._

The Fullmetal Alchemist…was _dead._

 _Your fault, your fault, your fault._ For a moment, he was under a burning red sun again, a pyre of innocents blazing up before him, their screams ringing in his ears. _Your fault, your fault, your fault._ Hawkeye’s eyes, back when she’d been Riza, when she’d looked at him with the eyes of a murderer who knew their crime and mourned it all, flashed in his mind, blocking out everything. _Your fault, your fault, your fault._ Her screams as his flames ravaged her back joined the wails of the pyre, the grieving howl of the wind whipping around him as he tried frantically to quell the flames lashing from his hands. _Your fault, your fault, your fault—_

Something brushed against his shoulder gently and he jolted, tensing with a gasp. The touch vanished, and he forced his racing heart to slow, inhaling oh-so slowly and forcing his eyes open. He was in the bathroom of his own house, the water running hot in the bathtub, far from the heat and screams of Ishval, his subordinate (broken by so, so much, but untouched by Ishval, he thought, and thanked a God he didn’t believe in for it) sitting just behind him.

And Ed—Ed was staring at him with wide, frightened gold eyes, that shaking, scarred hand still half-reaching for him. “O-okay?” His hand drew back, resting in his lap, lips pulled into a small frown of… _concern._ “Y-you…a-are you o-okay?” 

It took a minute for the words to sink in, and when they did, Roy wanted nothing more than to dissolve into the water before him. His subordinate—his stupid, shattered, selfless subordinate, a child dragged through hell and back, who has every right to focus on himself and _only_ himself and ignore Roy’s lingering issues—was trying to comfort _him._ To pull _him_ out of the nightmares, the flashbacks, the darkness, even when he was drowning in it himself.

He choked on something—a sob, a smile, he wasn’t sure _what_ —and turned back to the bathwater, testing the temperature again. _Damnit, kid._ He forced himself not to shake—with grief, with rage, with self-loathing and pain—and raised his head with a long, shaky exhale. _Worry about yourself for once. Fucking—fucking_ shit.

“I’m gonna be fine, Fullmetal.” The words were firmer, stronger than he felt, and he reached for the extra liquid soap for the bubbles, pouring it into the bathwater. “Don’t worry about me.”

There was a small, wounded noise, almost like a grumble—quiet, shaky, but _real._ “Tha’s…s’not—” And then there was a small gasp, and Roy looked over his shoulder to see Ed staring at the bubbles rising in the bathtub with a strange, shy sort of childish awe in his shining eyes. His hand (guilt and grief and rage pulsed through Roy again at the sight of the burn scar covering the back of his hand, the edges slipping onto his palm) half-rose, reaching for the bubbles before drawing back, eyes wide and fearful.

 _Oh, God,_ he thought with sudden horror. _Oh, God, I’ve fucked it up—fucking hell, what if they tried drowning him, what if this is going to fuck him up even more, what if I’ve ruined it all—damnit, Roy, you should’ve_ asked _him, you absolute idiot—_ “Can your leg go in water?” he forced out through gritted teeth, ignoring the burning in his eyes— _strong for Ed, strong for Ed, strong for Ed, strong for Ed, don’t you dare scare him._

The anxiety written all over that small, hollow face faded, replaced with a faint flare of… _pride._ Pride, and a little nod, almost imperceptible. “Uh-huh. W-Winry m-made it sp…spesh…” He tripped and stumbled and struggled with the word, and Roy watched in horror as tears rose, the burned hand coming up to cover his mouth. _He can’t—he can’t say it. Or maybe can’t remember the word, or—_

_They’re so dead._

“Special?” he offered gently, and Ed blinked, those tears spilling over, before bobbing his head in silent assent. “That’s good. I’m glad.” He wondered distantly, absently, the darkest parts of his soul freezing over as the awful, clinical curiosity poured in, how much of a comfort that leg had been to Ed. If it was a reminder of a world outside wherever he was held, a reminder of family, friends, that someone had cared enough to give him his autonomy back. “I think the bath’s bubbly enough, don’t you?”

Ed blinked again, hand still clamped over his mouth, before a muffled whine came from behind that frail hand. Roy fought the urge to shudder and scream at the sky, pull whatever cruel god presided over them all down from the heavens and choke them for what they’d done, and reached out. “Can I take off the shirt, buddy?”

Another whine, another nod. Roy managed to coax him to tug his hand down, quickly tugging the shirt over his head and tossing it aside. The kid’s entire torso was bandaged (god, how had he slept through all that _pain?_ ), and he wondered for a moment if he should remove those before deciding against it. He could change them after this, take the earful he’d get from Breda and Hawkeye no problem. Ed probably wouldn’t be able to handle the fear and pain of those bandages being unwound. “Alright, then, let’s get you cleaned up.”

There was a sneeze, startled and sudden and harsh, as Ed was picked up, and Roy’s blood ran cold for a moment. _Pneumonia—please, please don’t let it be pneumonia._ He let Ed’s hand graze the water, let him decide if the temperature was okay, and gently set him down in it when he received a quiet noise of assent. That scarred hand clutched at his wrist with surprising strength when he was set down—

And then he let go.

Ed’s hand grazed the bubbles lightly, eyes widening with that terrifying childlike awe, that horrible innocence as he touched them. Golden eyes roved over the bathtub, searching for a threat—and all the tension seemed to run out of Fullmetal when he found none, slumping over with a tired whimper. Still his gaze stayed fixed on the bubbles, his hand pawing at them, his eyes glowing like a child’s in the light.

He looked…young. Too young, too fragile, too small and sweet and broken to ever touch the world again, and in that moment, Roy wanted to wrap him up and whisk him away to somewhere he’d never be hurt again, press this small, battered soul to his chest and hold him close and never let go. Hawkeye would allow that, surely—would encourage it, if it meant the Elrics would be safe.

_I wish._

He watched Ed hesitantly dip his hand in the water, once, twice, thrice, snarls of golden hair that would be a pain to wash (he’d probably need to buy way more shampoo after this) hiding his face from view, and promised himself for the thousandth time:

_I’ll keep him safe._

_And I’ll kill whoever did this to him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liked it? Want more? Leave a kudos or a comment and tell me what you think?


	6. it's okay not to be okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riza pays a visit to the apartment, only to find a disaster brewing in the form of not one, but _two _Elric meltdowns. Roy handles one with surprising aplomb, but the other...the other is up to her.__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song of the chapter: [Who You Are](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e6x4J2GEIHA) (lowkey pictured riza singing this to ed. one-way ticket for the tears train, pls)
> 
> RIZA POV!!! I published early this week because I won't be able to publish tomorrow, so y'all get a bit of an early treat!

Really, the rest of the squad meant well, but Riza was fairly certain that Ed wasn’t anywhere near able to eat all the candy and treats they’d gotten him. She’d been designated the bearer of their team’s (rather over-the-top, if she was being entirely honest) gifts as soon as she’d filled them in on his condition, figuring—quite rightly—that Ed would likely panic if confronted by all of them at once. They’d insisted—even Falman—that they would come and visit him eventually, though; she found herself hoping it would be sooner rather than later. The state Ed had been in last night…she wasn’t sure what he needed more, to be _safe,_ or not to be _alone._

She stood before Mustang’s door now, the massive box they’d procured through a mix of sheer luck and obstinance balanced on one arm as she rummaged dubiously through the contents. Chocolates— _lots_ of those, and some sort of cinnamon candy that Ed might have enjoyed before all of this—were buried in the box. Havoc’s doing, probably. He no doubt meant well, but there was no way that Ed could possibly keep down something so rich right now. Crackers, too—good, those he could probably eat without too much trouble…and Havoc had, surprisingly, made some kind of soup he’d said that his mother had used to make for him when he was sick. Hopefully Ed could keep that down—keep _anything_ down, honestly.

 Mustang had sounded somewhere between terror and rage on the phone, so far from the smug, composed mask he put up so often, one he’d kept up through horrors the likes of which only a few knew. No doubt Ed was in a terrible state if he’d managed to unbalance him that much.

Yes, they had chocolate, cinnamon, crackers, soup—and, nestled slightly under the folds of the padding, a stuffed animal. She let her fingers touch the cloud-soft blue fluff of the dragon tucked safely in the box, an equally soft blanket cradling all the contents of the container. The stuffed animal had been Fuery’s idea, one that Breda and Havoc had jumped on immediately, practically ransacking the store right in front of the poor clerk (Riza would ensure that she was fairly compensated for putting up with that level of idiocy) in the hunt for a perfect comfort object. Being the one to choose the final option—the fluffy blue dragon with black button eyes, stitched on with scarlet thread—was _perhaps_ a point of pride for her, though she’d never admit it.

Well. Maybe she would to Ed, if it would make him smile again.

The door flew open, the sight of a harried-looking Roy Mustang greeting her. “Lieutenant,” he said dazedly. “Did you know that I have absolutely no food that a traumatized kid can eat?”

Considering the fact that Mustang notoriously survived on caffeine and whatever sustenance was set in front of him at his desk, Riza could quite easily. “Havoc made soup.”

His eyes brightened, staring down at the care package in her arms like it held his salvation. “I’m giving that man a promotion.”

“I don’t think you have the authority to do that, sir.”

He waved a hand dismissively, holding the door open for her to enter. “I’ll find a way.”

She entered, shoulders squared and back ramrod straight, a soldier marching into a war of a different kind—this time against demons none of them could see, ones they could hardly put names to. Terror, loss, guilt and grief, all haunting the mind of a fifteen-year-old child. A fifteen-year-old who didn’t even know he _was_ fifteen, who had yet to realize the time that had gone by.

_Don’t freeze up,_ she commanded herself fiercely, fingers tightening around the box as she stalked into the small kitchen, eyes immediately searching the room for Ed. _Don’t show your fear, your guilt, your pain. Don’t fuck it up and startle him._

Al was huddled by the sofa, looking almost as small as his big brother, hands wrapped around a much smaller one. Pleading—Riza could hear him pleading quietly with the figure huddled against the arm of the small, careworn couch. “Ed—Brother, please, the tea’s gonna help, and it’s gonna feel better on your throat if it’s hot— _please,_ Brother, you—you’re already _sick,_ and you n-need to have _something_ so you don’t _starve,_ or get even _sicker_ , or—or _die!”_ His voice shook, as though he were seconds from tears he couldn’t cry, at his wit’s end with the brother he barely recognized, with the idea of losing him in that last, irreversible way. “I _c-can’t—”_

Mustang was gone from her side with a hiss of, _“Shit,”_ a hand gently set on the shoulder of the armor. “Al—I’m heading out to get Fullmetal some clothes, but I don’t know his sizes—what they are or—or used to be.” Riza stared at the scene unfolding before her, at how Mustang— _Mustang,_ of all people, who had as many ghosts as she did, as many shackles around her wrists and as much red on her ledger—expertly wrangled the overwrought Alphonse, gently guiding him away from the shape curled beneath blankets on the couch. “Mind coming with me?”

Soulfire eyes flared bright, the Alphonse Elric version of a confused blink, before he shuddered. “B-but Ed—”

“The lieutenant can look after Ed for a little bit. It won’t take long—just something soft and warm he can actually wear rather than borrowing worn-out shirts.” Mustang gave her a pleading glance, and— _ah._ Not nearly as put together after this single night as she’d thought, then. This…this strange _expertise,_ that moment of knowing just what to do, that had been necessity rather than practice, than _knowledge._ He was struggling through this new reality, through the nightmares and needs and panic of a child, through the melancholy that came of losing someone and getting them back not-quite-right.

Then again, so was she. “Of course, sir.” She set the box down on the kitchen counter, hands hovering hesitantly over the contents—was there anything in here that would _help,_ even a little? Food, blanket, stuffed animal—the stuffed animal. Maybe…

Maybe. Everything was what-ifs and maybes and who-knews and she _hated_ it, loathed it with every fiber of her being. But those were all she had, and a possibility was better than no chance at all. She tugged it from the box as Al and Mustang quietly bade the quivering lump on the couch good-bye, tucked it under her arm just as the door slammed shut. The lump beneath the blankets jolted at the loud noise, a muffled whimper coming from beneath it, and Riza felt the quiet, steady façade she’d reminded herself to keep holding up shiver and falter.

“Ed,” she tried, wrapping her voice in the frost and iron that clouded her mind whenever she made a shot, praying it didn’t shake. Slowly, hesitantly, she settled next to him on the couch, the dragon tucked under her arm. Another whimper, and then a sob—and oh, _God,_ frost and iron couldn’t stand against that quiet, broken noise, the utter hopelessness in it. “Ed—Ed, it’s Riza. I’m—I’m right here.” Had she ever felt this out of her depth before? Had she felt it in Risembool, in Ishval, in her father’s house? Had she _ever—_

Small, frighteningly delicate fingers crept out and tugged on the soft blankets, the tension making the carefully-constructed nest collapse around the trembling creature within. Golden eyes, tearstained face, bandages— _new_ bandages—and long, unbound hair that was no longer snarled and knotted and twisted. The dirt and dust that that had smudged his face, his body was gone, too—a bath, then. Mustang had somehow convinced him to take a bath, and that would probably do wonders for that cold he was fighting. Riza couldn’t help drinking in the sight of him greedily, the rise and fall of his chest, the quiet, rasping breaths and the feverish flush on his face that, while a terrible sign, meant he was _alive._

And then Ed started to cry, and the spell broke.

_God—oh, God, fuck, shit—_ “Ed,” she whispered, quickly setting the dragon aside and pulling the blankets up over his shoulders again. “Ed, _malo sveta,_ what’s wrong?” The Drachman term, one she’d learned long ago, before she’d been a soldier, a sharpshooter, an assassin, a sniper—god, when she herself had been a child—slipped out before she could think about it.

He shook his head wildly, and she thought for a moment that he wouldn’t speak, that she’d scared him, hurt him, broken him even more with just a few sentences. Her heart began to pound in her chest, fear and grief pulsing in her veins in equal measure. “Al m-mad,” he choked out after a moment, though, and relief and horror crashed over her, the combination dizzying. “S-scared—s’all m-my faul’, _all my faul’—”_ He sobbed, pulling his knees to his chest, burying his face in them. _“M’sorry, m’sorry, m’sorry.”_

He blamed himself. Of _course_ he did, Riza thought with a strange sort of pity and horror; he’d always taken responsibility for Al, done everything he could to keep him safe—but just as he’d born the burden of moving them forward toward their goal, he’d poured the blame for their circumstances upon himself, taken responsibility for the bad as much as the good. Or the bad far more than the good, actually. No wonder he blamed himself for this.

“Do you know what upset him, Ed?” It was a struggle to keep her voice calm, to keep herself from sweeping the fragile creature into her arms and never letting go. She draped the blankets back over him again, settling them over his lap and shoulders. “Maybe I can help you figure out how to make it better.” _Maybe I can prove to you that it’s not your fault._

Ed whimpered, trembling—and pointed shakily at a mug of tea on the little table next to the couch. Riza blinked at it uncomprehendingly; Al had been trying to coax him to drink it, hadn’t he? Was it simply loss of patience, or fear, or something else?

Then Ed choked out, _“S-scary,”_ and curiosity turned morbid, turned horrified, turned cold and cruel and clinical in a way she absolutely loathed. Scared—he was _scared_ of the tea? That didn’t make sense, her mind whispered at first, and then she cursed herself for thinking it. _Anything_ could’ve happened to Ed while he was held captive. _Anything_ had the potential to bring back terrifying memories, to send him right back into that hell he’d barely clawed his way free of.

_Oh, god, Ed…_ “What makes it scary, Ed?” She folded her hands around each other to keep them from shaking, to keep herself from collapsing at the small, broken creature before her, so lost to fear he was barely even human.

He shook violently, small arm wrapping around mismatched legs—one of metal, one of flesh, one bandaged but both battered and bruised. “S’too—s’g-gonna—” He shook his head, and she fought the urge to wrap her arms around him with a herculean effort. “ _H-hurts,”_ he said after a moment, and that simple word broke everything in her, the hopelessness and resignation and fear within it laced with a darkness and loathing that no child should have.

_“Malo sveta,_ can you—do you think you can tell me why it hurts?” Hesitantly, she set a hand on his shoulder, careful not to touch the empty automail port. Ed jerked away from her touch, and she cursed herself, moving it back—only to stare in shock as he slowly pressed into it once again, like a small, frightened animal desperate for comfort. “You don’t have to,” she stressed, feeling him shake under her palm. “You have every right and reason in the book not to, Ed, and if I’m ever prying too much, please, _please_ tell me.”

Slowly, hesitantly, golden eyes peeked out at her from beneath overgrown bangs—huge and hollow and achingly, horribly _sad_ in a way that the broken little boy in Risembool had never been. Pale lips laced with scars like barbed wire and bite-marks trembled before parting, and his tongue poked out. Riza jerked back, struck and confused by the sudden, childish gesture—and then she saw it.

And she _stared._ Stared and stared and stared in deep, bone-chilling horror…and wild, feral, blood-boiling _rage._ Rage, because this was a _child,_ this was a child she knew and cared for and _loved,_ one she’d vowed to herself to protect rather than kill, a strange sort of penance for all the children she’d killed in the war (as if _that_ could blot out the hands dripping with red, the river of blood she’d created—but it was worth it, it would _all_ be worth it if she could carry them to the other side, carry _him)_ , and they’d done _this_ to him. Rage, because this boy was _hershershers_ and she’d failed, she’d _failed_ and they’d broken him and his tongue—

His tongue was _scarred,_ covered in twisting, pale burn scars, branded like an animal’s. Someone had _done that to him—_ pressed hot coals or matches or lighters to his tongue until the scars spread over nearly all of it. _Didn’t Knox see this? Or—or is it already healed over?_ Her hands shook despite her efforts to keep them still.

It wasn’t the tea itself that had frightened Ed. It was the _heat._ It was the idea of being burned again, hurt again, broken down to dust and ash and silence. No wonder he had trouble speaking, no wonder every word was a struggle, _no wonder no wonder no wonder—_

“Ed?” Her voice shook, and this time she didn’t try to hide it, didn’t bother with pretenses. Couldn’t, in the face of the tragedy before her, the sight that made her want to scream and snarl at the unforgiving universe like she hadn’t since Ishval. “Can I give you a hug?”

Wide, sad eyes blinked—and then Riza gasped as there was a sudden blur of motion, gasped as a body that was barely more than skin and bones practically threw himself at her. Ed was clinging to her, practically in her lap and sobbing as if his heart was breaking, his head buried in her shoulder. Forcing down a sob of her own, she wrapped her arms gently around him.

And bit by bit, she guided his hand—burned and branded, small and shivering—to the edges of the scars that covered her back. He froze as his hand, enveloped in hers, grazed the burns that hid her father’s masterpiece from sight—froze and jerked his head back, teary golden eyes wide with shock and confusion.

“You’re not alone, _malo sveta,”_ she whispered, and wrapped her arms around him again, rocked him gently back and forth. “You will never be alone again, I swear it.” _Never, never, never._ The vow pulsed in her blood, a promise to spite a cold, uncaring god. _Never, never, never._

Ed was shaking, crying, clinging to her as though she might dissolve into dust and shadows if he ever let go, and she couldn’t bring herself to mind. Her own hands trembled as she ran them through loose, damp blonde locks, cradled him with such tenderness that it shocked even _her._ That the hands of a murderer, a coward like her—that they could hold someone like _this—_

She had no right to. Not after the atrocities she’d committed.

But right now, faced with the sobbing child holding onto her like she was the only thing grounding him to reality… _right_ didn’t matter.

“Here,” she said softly, after—she didn’t know _how_ long it had been, minutes, hours, days, _months._ Her hands found the stuffed animal from where she’d left it, shifting Ed back a bit. He whined in fright, fingers tightening in the fabric of her jacket, and guilt sat heavy in her gut as she shushed him gently. “We got something for you, Ed.”

Hesitantly, she presented the dragon to him, holding it out like—like a _shield_ , she thought, suddenly ashamed, disgusted with herself. She could see why Al had begun to panic, why Mustang had been so out-of-his-depth that it _showed._ None of it was Ed’s fault, but every step they made was absolutely terrifying, a landmine waiting to go off. There was no way—at least not _now—_ to tell what would scare him, and what wouldn’t, and what if this just made it _worse—_

Ed reached out for the stuffed animal silently, tears gliding down his cheeks as he released her jacket and held his arm out pleadingly. He _wanted_ it, she realized, wanted it but wouldn’t take it without it being handed to him, without knowing for sure it was _safe. How many times did his captors trick him?_ she wondered with a detached sort of horror. _How many times did he reach for something, for comfort, only to be beaten back?_

“It’s all yours,” she whispered gently, and settled it in his lap. Ed stared at it for a moment, eyes wide, hand shaking, as if he wasn’t quite sure it was real, before clutching it to his chest. He folded himself around it, his arm pressing it to his chest as he slumped against the couch, looking small and worn-out and _broken._ Broken so deeply, so wholly within the fragile pieces of his soul, broken in a way that no child ever should be. That no human, person, _being_ ever should be.

Riza swallowed down grief and rage and a howling, burning hatred for the monsters who had done this to Edward Elric, and forced herself to smile. A strained, aching sort of smile—but a smile all the same. “Come on, _malo sveta,”_ she soothed, rising to her feet. “Let’s see if we can’t get some soup in you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whatcha think? Wanna see more from the new MVP, Smol Fluffy Dragon (because you definitely will!)? Or more from the Actual MVP, Riza Hawkeye (because you DEFINITELY will!)? Leave a comment and a kudos, and tell me what you thought!
> 
> Btw, when Riza calls Ed "malo sveta", she's saying "little light". I'm at least 85% sure that Drachma was somewhat based off of Russia, so I used google translate to find it. If I'm wrong, please correct me!


	7. feel so tired, but you can't sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “'Brother, are you—d-do you need anything?'
> 
> The little tremble in his voice _hurt. _Ed knew he had no right to feel hurt, after—after everything he was doing to them, to Mustang and Hawkeye and everyone that worked on their team, after causing so much worry and distraction and being such a stupid _brat. _It would’ve been better—so, so much better if he could just speak properly, like an actual person, but he couldn’t stop freaking out about the smallest things and he was just—"____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song of the chapter: [Fix You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8a54m5f96qc) cover by Kurt Hugo Schneider 
> 
> prepare for brotherly angst

Hawkeye must be magic, Ed decided three days later, staring down at the stuffed dragon she’d given him and hoping against hope that it would talk to him. Magic, or some sort of miracle worker, or a fairy godmother like in that children’s story— _don’t think about that don’t think about that don’tthink—_ from ages and ages ago, the one he’d read when he still _could_ read. There was no other explanation why she—and Mustang, too—were still here, and still trying to help…and sometimes _succeeding,_ almost. They’d made his stomach stop being dumb (at least once a day, which was—was a lot more than he was used to, and it _hurt_ sometimes), and talked him down when he was being stupid and crying and wailing like—like a _child,_ and they helped _Al,_ too, which meant more than _anything._ It was more than he’d ever been able to do, which meant—meant it _had_ to be magic, right?

_Magic._ Before-Ed wouldn’t have believed in magic. He’d never be that stupid, that desperate. Before-Ed wouldn’t wish it was real so that he could just—just wave a wand and fix himself. Before-Ed hadn’t _needed_ fixing. Not as much as he needed to fix other people. Not as much as he needed to be fixed now.

_You need to be fixed, changed, made better than this crying, broken thing,_ the cold, wicked voices whispered, taunting and cruel. Ed clutched the dragon tighter, as if that might drown them out ( _stupidstupid stop being such a dumb kid)_. _You do, you do, you do._

Quietly, he traced one of the little stars he’d scratched into the paint of Mustang’s spare room, imagining them lighting up gold—not with the light of a transmutation, or the glow of fire, or the—the white-hot glow of the Bar, but with a special sort of light that meant safety and hope and home. All sorts of things he wasn’t allowed, and shouldn’t risk having, but did anyways.

Yes, Before-Ed didn’t believe in magic or fate or anything like that—but Before-Ed didn’t know the cell. Before-Ed didn’t know things like the cell existed, or that being bad meant being hurt, or to be scared of the dark because _They_ were waiting in it, waiting and laughing and mocking him.

He rolled over and pressed the dragon against his chest, peering out at the night-darkened room over it. Icy fear crawled through his veins at the reminder of the hungry, unfeeling darkness, the same shadows now cloaking the same tiny sanctuary—but he shouldn’t— _shouldn’t_ be _scared of the dark,_ because that was stupid and childish _(as if you_ aren’t _those two things,_ the voices sneered, and he choked on a sob). And asking for a nightlight—asking for _things,_ anything, that would be—that would make him _bad,_ and ungrateful, _selfish little brat—_

“Brother?” Glowing eyes, pinpricks of scarlet in the darkness, peered at him from the squishy armchair Al had been sitting vigil in every single night. Scary—the eyes were _scary,_ and Ed would never tell him because it was _his fault_ they were like that, he had no right to be scared, no right to want to cry from fear and guilt and pain whenever he laid eyes on his little brother. And he definitely shouldn’t be tearing up _now,_ because that was _badbadbad_ and what if he woke everyone up, _uselessbratstupidnuisancecan’tdoanythingright—_ “Brother, are you—d-do you need anything?”

The little tremble in his voice _hurt._ Ed knew he had no right to feel hurt, after—after everything he was doing to them, to Mustang and Hawkeye and everyone that worked on their team, after causing so much worry and distraction and being such a stupid _brat._ It would’ve been better—so, so much better if he could just speak properly, like an actual _person,_ but he couldn’t stop freaking out about the _smallest things_ and he was just—

_M’sorry, Al, m’sorrym’sorrym’sorry._ “N-no,” he croaked, curling up more tightly. His muscles protested the movement, sore and aching, cuts and scrapes and bruises covered in bandages (bandages—bandages were _weird,_ he wasn’t _supposed_ to be allowed to heal properly, but at least they covered up all the awful, ugly burn scars, ones that Mustang hadn’t been able to even really _look_ at before covering them in new bandages and salve, the marks of how diso—no, just _bad_ he was) sending flares of pain and tears to his eyes. The fact that he was crying over _aching muscles_ registered—aching muscles, which he was _used_ to, which he lived every day with—and he whimpered quietly into the soft dragon, willing his body not to shake.

It didn’t obey. Which he should’ve expected, really, he could barely hobble and crawl a few paces, had—had _accidents_ (it had happened _all three nights,_ whenever he slept, so he wasn’t gonna sleep anymore ever) _,_ like a tiny _child_ , shook and sobbed at the s—sensa— _feel_ of too much heat (what would he do if— _ififif_ —he was fixed and Mustang had to use his flame alchemy? What if he relearned the alphabet and still couldn’t do alchemy? What if—whatif _whatifwhatifwhatif)_. His body wouldn’t listen and his mind was broken and he was nothing and no one and the Fullmetal Alchemist was _deaddeaddead,_ just like _They’d_ promised.

Apparently, his whimpers weren’t as quiet as he’d hoped, because Al’s shockingly quiet footsteps were thudding toward him. A leather gauntlet, almost warm enough to feel him, brushed along his head, smoothing back his hair before settling over his shoulder. As though _Ed_ was the little brother, the protected instead of the protector, instead of defending Al like he _could’veshould’vecan’t._ “It’s okay to be scared, Brother.”

It wasn’t—it wasn’t it wasn’t it _wasn’t._ Not of the dark or of heat or of Al, of loud noises and crowds and speaking and the sight of blood (they didn’t know about that one, not yet, and he hoped they never ever ever found out because what sort of alchemist or _person,_ really, was scared of the simple sight of _blood?)_ , of sudden touches and people knowing he couldn’t—couldn’t _read._ It _wasn’t_ okay to be this scared of _everything_ or this _useless,_ this much of a _burden_ on everybody. It wasn’t, _it wasn’t it wasn’t it wasn’t—_

_He_ wasn’t.

“M’s-so—”

Al’s hand stroked over his hair again, light and hesitant. “Y-you don’t have to apologize, Ed.” There was an edge of seriousness to his painfully gentle voice, and heavy, sickening guilt swam in his gut. _You upset him, made him mad, why do you alwaysalwaysalways screw it up._ “I— _I_ s-should be apologizing.”

_What?_

No— _no._ That was _wrong;_ Al didn’t need to apologize, he hadn’t done anything wrong and it wasn’t his fault (it was _Ed’s_ for being _stupid_ and _weak)._ He struggled to sit up, unable to choke back a whine as the dragon fell from his lap and toppled over the side of the bed. _Oh, no—no, nonono…don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’tcry—_

“Oh—don’t worry, Brother, I’ve got her.” And then the dragon was in his lap again, and Al’s eyes were glowing in that way that meant he was as close to smiling as he could possibly be. “Have you—uh, have you got a name for her?”

A name— “ _N-no,”_ Ed tried to protest, but it came out more like another whine ( _pathetic, whimpering little mongrel monstermonstermonster)_. “No—no changin’ the s-subject. N-no _‘pologies._ ” The very idea of it seemed lu—ludicr— _impossible._ Al hadn’t done anything wrong, certainly didn’t need to say sorry to _him. You should be groveling at his feet for still wanting anything to do with you, you pathetic brat._

That glow dimmed a bit. If Al was human, he would’ve set his jaw stubbornly. “ _Yes,_ apologies. I scared you the other day and—and I freaked out, and that freaked _you_ out, and I was so scared that y-you’d get sicker and—and _d-die—”_ There was a choked gasp, even though Al couldn’t breathe _(and whose fault is that?)_ , and the hand stroking his hair stilled. “I let myself get scared, and that s-scared you even _worse._ And that was the _last_ thing you needed. _”_

 No—no, it wasn’t Al’s fault. It _wasn’t._ He hadn’t known about the Bar and the tongue brand—still didn’t, only Hawkeye knew (and not even the full story). She’d kept it secret and even revealed her own scars, and _he_ wouldn’t have been brave enough to do that even Before, which made her absolutely _incredibly_ brave. Al didn’t know Ed was scared of something as stupid and mundane as overly hot _anything._ “Not—not y-your fault,” he rasped, and was disgustingly, pathetically proud of himself for actually pronouncing the “t” this time. “Didn’ know—” and he’d missed the “t” there, _can’t even speak too scared to tell anyone the truth badbadbad._ “Didn’ know,” he repeated helplessly, the tears spilling over against his will, streaks of warmth trailing down his face _again_.

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t scare you. Or that I should’ve gotten that upset when you were already panicking.” Al shook his head, before glancing at the edge of the bed and back at him. “Can I—can I sit, Brother?”

Ed blinked up at him in confusion. Al didn’t—he didn’t need to _ask._ Al would never hurt him, never-ever, and even if he did, he’d deserve it. He’d trust him always, always and forever. “’C-course.” He shifted, scooting back until his back hit the wall, a yelp escaping as his burns flared up in sudden agony. _Don’tcrydon’tcrydon’tcry—_

His hand was in his mouth again, he realized distantly, teeth sinking into flesh, and Al made a quiet, distressed noise as he sank down beside him. “Oh, _Brother.”_ Al’s hands wrapped around his own, gentle and kind and all sorts of things Ed didn’t deserve, and tugged his hand free. “Y-you can cry, you know, and be upset, and—and let yourself _feel.”_

_I can’t I can’t I can’t ‘cause if I do then I breakbreakbreak and I can’t be fixed, weakweakweak worthless._ He shook his head wildly, hid his face in Al’s side with a quiet sob. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could _be_ but this small, broken creature he hated. Nothing but a failure, a _freak,_ a small and shivering child who couldn’t do _anything,_ who’d destroyed himself and his brother both and now couldn’t even fix it like he’d promised.

_What happens when the unbreakable is broken?_ Their voice echoed in his mind, dark and silky and sickly-sweet. _Does it become unfixable?_

Ed sobbed again, curled up against Al. _Don’tgodon’tgodon’tgo._ _“Sorrysorrysorry—”_

A smooth, cold metal forehead pressed against his own, soulfire searing his eyelids scarlet. “I know, Brother.” Three words, soft and small and achingly sad. “I know.”

_I’m not going anywhere._

* * *

 

Ed didn’t have an accident that night—maybe because he didn’t sleep, just like he’d promised himself. Which meant that one of his plans _worked,_ too, for the first time since Before— _no._ No, that wasn’t really true, was it? The escape plan had worked, even though it was barely a plan, barely anything but two thoughts and his instincts whispering _runrunrun_ until his legs gave out in the middle of what he knew now was East City.

But it had still worked, and the sheets were _dry,_ and Al had _stayed,_ so maybe today was going to be sort-of-okay. The only problem was that Al was giving him the side-eye that said _I know you’re tired, take a nap,_ and, well—disobedience was _really really_ bad, but Al hadn’t said anything _out loud,_ and Ed wasn’t going to risk ruining the couch or having to put the dragon in the wash (it was childish, shameful, _stupid,_ but the idea of going anywhere without it made his stomach turn over and over and over like it was going to flop right out of his body). So instead he was perched one of the chairs at the kitchen counter for once, stuffed dragon on the one next to him, watching Al heat up the rest of Havoc’s soup.

Mustang…Mustang wasn’t here today, which was sort of _(really)_ scary. It wasn’t like he _should_ be—he was still part of the military, still _useful,_ still had to do important things for important people. He’d said, too, that he just had to get things in order before he could take a leave of absence, so it wasn’t even like he was _really actually gone._ He wasn’t—wasn’t _alone,_ he tried to remind himself, and _They_ were _gonegonegone_ which meant he was almost-sort-of safe, right?

But Mustang wasn’t _here,_ and Mustang had been there the _whole time_ since Ed got out, and maybe he _wouldn’t come back—_

 No. No, he _had_ to come back, _hadtohadtohadto._ If he didn’t, Ed would—

_Do what?_ one of the awful voices whispered, cold and dripping with a sickening sort of sugary-sweetness. _Cry like the helpless little thing you are? Wish on stars and seconds and grains of sand for him to walk through the door again? Bite your hand and pull your hair and pretend everything is normal? You wouldn’t do anything but mourn and break and you know it._ The voice laughed, harsh and mocking and grating on his ears. _All hail the Fullmetal Alchemist, the Hero of the People—_

“Ed?”

He jerked back, yelping in sudden, sharp terror as the stool wobbled beneath him. Al’s hands quickly moved from the bowl of soup set before him to the seat, steadying it. He clutched at the armor helplessly, desperately, unable to keep himself from letting out a sob. “Brother,” Al said gently, and then he was being gathered into a precarious hug, a broad hand gently rubbing his back. Flares of pain chased up and down his muscles beneath the bandages, but he didn’t say a word— _don’tletgopleasedon’tletgopleasedon’tAl._ “You just started—uh, you started crying a little, Brother, is everything okay? Did I—did I hurt—”

_“No!”_ He grasped desperately for Al’s shoulder, choking on another sob as he clung to his brother, _pathetic, so pathetic so needy so_ stupid. “N-no, no, w-wasn’ you—was j-just—thinkin’ and it—it h- _hurt_.” It was a lame explanation, the worst he’d ever given (everything from Before included) but there was no other word for it—none that Ed could _remember,_ anyways. It _had_ hurt, though; the voices dripped ice and poison and pain everywhere when they crawled through his mind and they _wouldn’t shut up_ no matter _what_ he did. So it wasn’t—it wasn’t a lie, and he _hadn’t_ been bad, and Al shouldn’t worry because he was _finefinefine._

He wasn’t.

He wasn’t, but maybe the longer he survived like _this,_ the better he’d get at pretending.

“A-Al—”

“Yeah?”

Ed blinked at gunmetal gray, soulfire red, the soft hints of hazel-gold he could sometimes see bleeding through. All a product of science and failure, _his failure,_ his mistakes, his stupidity and pride and selfish desperation that led him to challenge death itself. All of it _his fault._

“Do you—d-d’you ever b-believe in—in m-magic?” Tears rose as the words finally escaped, a thousand times more childish and foolish than he’d thought they were in his head. _Why did you say that you sound so_ childish, _stop being so—so_ ruined, _get a grip._ He pressed his forehead against the armor, willing the tears back as he shook uncontrollably. _Hatethishatethishatethis._

“I do.”

Ed stilled, pulled back enough to tilt his head back and look his brother in those burning, soulfire eyes. “Not really in—in big things,” Al continued, sounding thoughtful, “but when it comes to the smaller bits and pieces—the way that the sky seems to send a little bit of stardust down to the sea, or how colors and light blend to make new colors, new light—then yeah, I believe in magic, and that some things are magical. Like—like knowing the path to a place you’ve only been in dreams, or looking into the eyes of a stranger and thinking _I know you.”_ Red met wide, tear-stained gold. “Like leading the lost home.”

_Home._

Like following a river of light through the sky, he’d run and fallen and crawled into a phone booth, remembered a number he’d burned as soon as he received it, found just enough _cenz_ in the pocket of a stolen coat to pay for the call. And all of that—all of that had led him here. Led him _home_.

Ed didn’t care, for a moment, whether it was fate or magic or lucky chance. Didn’t care about anything except for the quiet safety of the house and the solid, gentle presence of his little brother, the promise of the others returning. Because whatever it was had _let him out_ , and now—now he was here.

Ruined, and broken, but… _safe_.

“T-think I l-like m-magic,” he managed, staring down at the barely-there cracks in Mustang’s kitchen floor, pretending they weren’t blurring from the urge to cry again.

Al’s laugh was soft, warm—almost relieved. “Me too, Brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BROTHERLY ANGST. aren't they just adorable
> 
> Whatcha think? leave a kudos or a comment if you enjoyed it, and i'll see you all next Tuesday!


	8. make the world safe and sound for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so maybe today wasn't going to exactly be _good,_ he conceded, setting the bags down on the counter and pulling his keys from his mouth ruefully, but he could still make it a _passable_ sort of day, the average sort that brought nothing new, nothing exciting (or potentially _frightening_ for Ed, which would make the day good by default).
> 
> Then he heard the sob.
> 
> Or, more accurately, _sobbing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's song: [Dear Theodosia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TKpJjdKcjeo) from Hamilton (y'all, Roy is a d a d)

At this point, Roy was sort of used to making terrible decisions on a day-to-day basis—or not necessarily terrible ones, but _questionable_ choices at best. He’d been trying to abstain from it lately, of course; he couldn’t exactly afford to make any serious missteps with the broken shell of a boy currently inhabiting his guest room. Ed was already fucked up enough by whatever bastards took him. He didn’t need to be accidentally traumatized due to sheer stupidity on top of it all. Particularly by _Roy’s_ stupidity, which some on his team (Maes, mostly) said was worse than the stupidity of others because he had the nerve to pretend to _not_ be an idiot on top of it.

Nine days had successfully passed, though. Nine days without fucking it up entirely. A few of them had even been the closest thing he’d seen to _good days_ since Ed had disappeared—Hawkeye had even coaxed him into eating, a task that Al readily picked up on as soon as she was unavailable, approaching every attempt to help Ed with the same ironclad determination that had emerged after that shopping trip. As if in response to this resolve, Ed had relaxed—barely, it was _barely_ noticeable, but still _there_ and that was so much more than it had been before—enough to actually ask for a hug or a hand every now and then. The presence of the stuffed animal had somehow done wonders as well; Ed brought the thing _everywhere_ and having something to hold calmed him immensely, kept him from biting his fingers and pulling his hair too much.

He was _healing._ Bit by tiny, painstaking bit, but the progress was still there, was enough to give him a flicker of hope. Enough for him to make a plan for proper groceries when he at last had to go out, when Hawkeye was unavailable and Al was called away to handle some matter he hadn’t spoken on, one that had nearly dragged a curse out of the usually sweet, innocent boy before he rushed off to the nearest phone. Terrible timing, yes, but he was certain it was shaping up to be one of _those_ days when he left, early enough that Ed was still fast asleep—or as close to fast asleep as the poor thing could get; it had taken everything in Roy not to wake and comfort the kid when he’d heard him crying in his sleep, but he’d learned that a rude awakening would likely result in Ed screaming and clawing and sobbing like a small, cornered animal and possibly hurting himself.

It was fine, he’d reminded himself as he’d left. It would be _fine._ He’d be back before Ed even knew he was gone, and with ingredients for that delicious soup Havoc had finally given him the recipe for and a few other snacks and treats that hopefully the kid could stomach. He would just get the stuff on his shopping list and hurry home as fast as he possibly could. He’d start the soup, make some tea (lukewarm, not hot, Hawkeye had snapped at him once after that disastrous second day, and had given no further explanation—but Ed would drink the tea and take some Tylenol now, and even if the lack of heat wasn’t doing much good for his throat, it was certainly better than nothing) and coax Ed awake in time for breakfast (in time to subtly change the sheets before another meltdown could happen). He’d scribbled out a note and left it where the kid could see, just in case he wasn’t back in time.

He would _make_ it a good day, damnit. He was the Flame Alchemist, fearless and charismatic and powerful beyond measure. He could handle taking care of one kid alone for a day.

 _One traumatized, utterly helpless kid,_ a cruel voice had whispered. _One who you abandoned. One who you gladly let become this frightened little_ sheep _._

His darker thoughts calling Ed a “sheep” was probably a terrible sign, but he’d ignored it, heading out to gather the groceries. It was a small list, really—just a few things. It would be a quick trip, probably not even an hour, and then he’d be back in the apartment with time to spare before Ed woke. It would be _perfectly fine._

The fact that he had to keep repeating that to himself was probably _another_ terrible sign, but he’d ignored that, too.

In fact, he’d done his best to ignore everything that pointed toward it being a terrible, horrible, no-good very bad day, from the grocery line being too long to the traffic jam he got caught in on the way back. A brief, forty-five-minute journey somehow became an hour and a half, and then half the damn vegetables nearly spilled out of the grocery bag on the way up the stairs, and by the time he’d actually gotten _up_ he realized his house keys were in the car. A five-minute sprint up and down the steps and a mad scramble for the keys, and then he was fumbling his way into his apartment, grocery bags in hand and keys clenched in his teeth as he made a beeline for the counter.

Okay, so maybe today wasn’t going to exactly be _good,_ he conceded, setting the bags down on the counter and pulling his keys from his mouth ruefully, but he could still make it a _passable_ sort of day, the average sort that brought nothing new, nothing exciting (or potentially _frightening_ for Ed, which would make the day good by default).

Then he heard the sob.

Or, more accurately, _sobbing._

Someone was sobbing in the room—in his _kitchen_ , and Roy had a horrible, heartbreaking, sickening feeling he knew exactly who it was.

“Fullmetal?” he forced out through the sudden wave of panic that swamped him, nauseating and relentless, leaving him horribly unsteady. Slowly, he made his way around the small kitchen island, dreading what he’d see on the other side. Every sob pulled violently at his heart, his soul, reminder after brutal reminder just how absolutely _destroyed_ the kid was, regardless of how many good days there were. _You forgot, you forgot, you forgot—you only looked at the steps forward not the steps back and you_ forgot.

 _It’s easy to ignore the ways someone is broken when you’re not the only one in charge of them, isn’t it?_ some voice crooned, the words as damning as that cold, defiant _I will never forgive you_ from the last Ishvalan of the war. He pushed it away as he always did, and forced himself to keep moving.

It felt, he thought distantly, like he was walking toward his execution.

 _Is he hurt is he dying what have you done why’d you leave him, you fucking_ idiot _?_ “Fullmetal, kiddo, what’s wrong?” _What have I done, what have I done, what have I done?_ He neared the corner, forcing his hands not to shake, his voice to stay steady as the sobs hitched before picking up more violently, more broken and aching and _horrible._ “Please come out, kid, I just—I want to help, Ed, _please—” Help me understand, help me fix this._

He rounded the corner—and there he was.

Ed had never seemed so _small,_ not even on the first day, not even rain-soaked and shaking and burning up with fever and fear. But here he was now, huddled against the cabinets and fully clothed, dry and warm and safe—and crying so hard he seemed seconds from throwing up or passing out, curled up tightly in a ball with that too-skinny arm wrapped around his knees. His face was hidden by his bangs, but he was radiating so much pain, so much _fear_ that Roy felt physically _ill_ from it all. _You did this. You did this, you did this, you did this._

He was so _young—_ looked even smaller, younger, sadder than he usually did, as though he were five years old instead of fifteen. Too young to handle this much pain—and Roy had gone and gleefully _added_ to it, without even thinking _twice—_

 “Ed,” he choked out—and then Ed’s head jerked up, so fast that it cracked loudly against the cabinet door. A wail of pain spilled past the child’s lips, followed by a sob, and Roy heard more than felt his own legs give out. One minute he was staring down at the broken boy that had been the Fullmetal Alchemist, and the next he was on his level, staring out at golden eyes made overbright with fever and terror and tears. “Ed,” he repeated, and half-reached for him, instinctively drawing back as those golden eyes drifted to him, tears pouring down sunken cheeks. “What’s _wrong,_ kiddo, please, please tell me how to fix it—”

There was a blur of gold, another wail, and Roy hissed suddenly as the wind was knocked out of him, as Ed flung himself at him, latching on and clinging to him like he was the only thing grounding him to earth. He was shaking—God, he was shaking _so much,_ thin, shivering body curled up tight in his lap and sobbing into his shoulder like the world was coming to an end.

Maybe it was. Or maybe his world had already ended, when he’d walked alone into rubble and ash and had died there, gone from soldier and alchemist and hero to this fragile, shivering, sad-eyed little thing. Maybe Roy had _let_ it end. Maybe he was complicit in the destruction of Edward Elric. And maybe—maybe now was no time for _maybe,_ not with Ed crying in his arms and Roy unable to do anything but hold and soothe him.

_Focus. Protect him. Don’t you dare fail him any more than you already have._

The pound of blood in his ears, wild and roaring like some untamed beast, died down after a moment—enough to hear _words_ within Ed’s sobs. Two words, babbled over and over and over in such terror and _hurt_ that each one was like a bullet to the heart, punching holes in what he thought (had _prayed)_ was ironclad: _you left._

Over and over he whispered the words, sobbing and clinging and babbling them endlessly. Roy could only stare, only shake in horror and self-loathing and _grief_ as Ed whispered, _“Youleftyouleftyouleftyouleft.”_ He whispered them a hundred times, a thousand times, so many that Roy lost count somewhere in the middle. The words pounded at his skull, his chest, his heart, and he wrapped his arms more tightly around the boy, heart aching.

“I’d never leave you,” he choked out after a long moment, Ed’s sobs still ringing in the air. _“Never again,_ Ed—god, I’m so sorry, I thought—I thought the note—I must have scared you _so much,_ kiddo.” His hands were still shaking, he realized, as though looking at them from a great distance, a passenger in his own body. “I’m so _sorry,”_ he repeated helplessly.

Ed was trembling even _harder_ now, his sobs turning to awful, animalistic wails that Roy knew by now were a sign that the poor thing was about to cry himself sick. He forced himself to sit up, still clutching Ed against him, one hand resting on his back. “Ed,” he started— _God, what do I say, what do I do—_ “Ed, I need you to try and breathe, buddy. Just—in and out, okay?” He made himself take a deep breath in and release it, praying that Ed mimicked him. And—wonder of wonders, thank whatever deity that was laughing at them even now—he did, the boy shaking even harder as he forced in a shuddery, shallow breath and exhaled again. “Good—good.” He ran his fingers through long, unkempt blonde hair, resting his chin atop his head and praying that this would soothe him somehow.

It took a long, _long_ time—or maybe it just felt like hours, days, months had passed on that kitchen floor—but Ed’s sobs quieted slowly, the boy curling up tight and small in his lap and whimpering quietly into his shirt. Roy just kept holding him, sick with his own guilt and yet unwilling—un _able—_ to let him go. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I was going to get groceries, and I thought I’d be back before you woke up, and—God, I’m so _stupid.”_ A watery laugh escaped his lips despite his best efforts. “Fuck. The ice cream’s probably melted.” Why he’d _gotten_ ice cream when the kid was no doubt unable to stomach it, he didn’t know. He’d hoped the promise of something sweet might give Ed something to look forward to, but he’d just scared him shitless instead. _Of course I did, of course I hurt him. Fire burns everything it touches, burned_ so many— _why would he be any different? Why did you think you had the right, the_ ability _to care for him when all you’re good for is destruction?_

Ed whimpered and squirmed in his lap, arm withdrawing from where it was slung clumsily over Roy’s shoulders and curling up, head resting on his shoulder. Roy jerked forward, instinctively moving to pick him up, move him to the couch or his bed or somewhere softer and cozier and safer for him than the kitchen floor—

And then Ed unfolded shivering, scarred fingers to reveal a scrap of paper, and Roy’s heart dropped through the floor.

The note. The note he’d thought would save him if Ed woke up, or at least buy him some time, a note that—

That Ed had _seen,_ and yet…

_Oh God, no._

“Ed.”

Golden eyes wouldn’t meet his, tears spilling silently over and dripping down hollow, fever-flushed cheeks. Roy’s heart caught in his throat at the pitiful, pathetic figure the once-proud alchemist cut before him, but he forced himself to continue anyway: “Can you…can you not _read_ it?”

A sob, a shaking hand covering his face—and then a small, quivering nod that spoke of such deep shame it physically _hurt_ him to see. Horrified, Mustang recalled what Ed had babbled over the phone a week ago—that he couldn’t remember the word for something, recalled his struggle over words that most people found _simple_ when waiting for the bath to fill up what felt like so long ago ago, the way he still struggled to speak and communicate. He’d thought—he’d thought it was just some sort of speech trauma, not a lack of _ability_ that caused it. He hadn’t thought anyone would even be able to _take_ that from a person.

And to take that from _Ed—_ Ed, a genius, who relied on reading to research a way to restore his brother, who prided himself on his intelligence, whose mind had catapulted him so far so fast…it seemed too much, too _cruel._ Worse, even, than the physical wounds and scars—and god, those were horrible enough on their own. He’d forced himself not to look to closely when changing the bandages, for his own sanity, for _Ed’s_ sanity and whatever scraps of pride were left, but the bruises and scars that had marred nearly every inch of skin were burned into his brain from that first awful glimpse.

But this—this was so much _more_ than that, because not only did it bring pain, it brought _helplessness._ It made the self-sufficient into the dependent, humiliated him so thoroughly that he had been reduced to…to the near-silent figure huddled before him now. Silent, head bowed and shoulders trembling, almost as if he was—as if he was _waiting_ for something.

Waiting, Roy realized, for scorn, and hate. _Taught_ to expect nothing but scorn and hate by those who’d turned the Fullmetal Alchemist to dust and ash.

The thought made his blood boil, made his fingers itch for his ignition gloves. He’d burn their hands, first, for hurting Ed, and their tongues for feeding him lies and laughing while they broke him, and then their eyes for watching a child crumble to dust and doing nothing, boil their blood in their veins for as long as it took to kill them off. He’d do it, and enjoy it, and he wanted to tell Ed that it was okay, that the bastards who did this would be dead and buried soon enough, that he didn’t have to fight any more.

“I’m proud of you,” he said instead.

Ed’s head jerked up again, golden eyes wide, lips parting as if he were about to protest, but Roy—Roy could not, _would not_ have that, and barreled on. “I am _so proud of you,_ Fullmetal.” He wrapped his hands around that skinny, scarred one, gave it a gentle squeeze. “You’re braver than a thousand soldiers, stronger of heart than the entire military put together. You have made me proud every day since I met you in Risembool, every day since you came back to us. _Every. Goddamn. Day.”_ Gently, he brushed the boy’s bangs out of his eyes. “I’m so proud of you for trying to move forward, to adjust, to recover. For _trusting us,_ trusting _me_ even when everything the past year threw at you told you not to.” There were tears gliding down Ed’s cheeks again, he realized—silent tears, untouched by sobs or wails or even sniffles. “And for trusting me with this, I am _even prouder,_ Ed.”

Ed shook his head slowly, still crying silently—expecting rejection and instead finding gentle encouragement, and left entirely overwhelmed by it. Roy wrapped his arms around him again, pulled him back into a loose, gentle embrace. “I’ll teach you,” he murmured. “When you’re ready to learn again, I’ll help you, as much as you need, as long as you need.” _Even if you need to learn it all from the beginning, I’ll help you, and so will they._

Slowly, he got to his feet, adjusting his hold to carry Ed in his arms, the child curling up against him and burying his face in his shoulder with a whimper. “You’re brave,” he repeated. “You’re brave, and you’re strong, and I know you don’t feel it, but you _are._ You’re brave and good and you deserved _none_ of what happened to you.” Distantly, he realized he was subtly shifting Ed in his arms, almost rocking him back and forth like a parent trying to soothe a young, frightened child. Which he _was,_ really, whether he deserved to be or not.

It seemed, he thought almost dryly, to be working. Ed was shaking a little less, huddled limp and small and sorrowful in Roy’s arms and curling as close as he could get despite the heat radiating off of his small figure—his fever, still unbroken after over a _week,_ if a little lower. Roy made a mental note to call Knox again as soon as he got the chance. “Where’s your dragon, kiddo?” He glanced around, wondering if Ed had brought it with him, or if he’d been so overwrought by panic that he’d forgotten it entirely. “Should we go get it?”

Ed blinked in what seemed like confusion, before whimpering again as the realization hit him, hand opening and closing as though aching to hold the precious little comfort it gave him again. “W-wan’ h-her, p-please.”

His voice was tiny, shivering and bleeding self-loathing and pain with every syllable—but he was _speaking._ Roy resisted the urge to say something ridiculously parental all over again— _proud of you, so, so proud of you, thank you for speaking—_ and managed a chuckle. “Then let’s go get her, Fullme—”

“T-thank y-you.” Ed gazed up at him, small hand trembling, golden eyes shining with unshed tears and unspoken hope, so much so that it pulled painfully at Roy’s heart to see it, before tugging on his shirt hesitantly. “T-thank you. F-for coming b-back.”

_Because no one ever came back for him when he was…there. Because no one thought that he needed someone to go back for him._

_Because we were blinded by false confidence and bravado, and let him walk to his demise alone._

A lump rose in Roy’s throat, and he adjusted his grip, cradling him close enough to hear that shockingly steady heartbeat, beating out a quiet rhythm for that scarred and shattered heart. “I promised you, didn’t I?” he managed to rasp around it. “I’m never going to leave you.” _Never again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so roy knows that ed can't read, and ed is...very upset, but also feeling safer than usual! stay tuned for next tuesday! it'll be less angsty.


	9. i lay my life before you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riza hoped he would. _Prayed,_ something she rarely did, begged to someone she didn't believe in, that he would. But even if he didn't, if _this_ was all they ever got, if he never wore the red coat again, never fought, never so much as touched a transmutation circle--she would be grateful for it. Because it was better than nothing, better than Edward Elric being dead and gone in more than spirit, _infinitely_ better than the strange hole left in all their hearts when he was missing.
> 
> The old Ed was gone, true, but this one was every bit as lovable and every bit as _loved,_ and she would spend an eternity proving that to him if she had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ta-da! it's nowhere near as angsty as last chapter, don't worry. in fact, there's even some fluff!
> 
> [I've Been Waiting For You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v9WGfVweWFo) from Mamma Mia 2. it's the song sophie sings to her unborn child and as a tribute to her own mother, donna, and i thought it suited this chapter well.

Riza really, truly, genuinely _hated_ to say it—but sometimes Ed could be absolutely _adorable_ in this state, most often without really _realizing_ it. And in some ways, that made it _worse—_ so much worse, because she was supposed to hate every minute, every facet of this, and she _did._ But sometimes she couldn’t help but find the way he’d follow Mustang and Al around like a duckling cute, or catch herself nearly cooing over the way he’d painstakingly scribble circles and stars and suns on paper when he was bored of napping or listening to the radio and in a particularly good mood. And she _hated_ herself for it.

This day’s particular rendition of that realization came when she stumbled across Ed quietly talking to the stuffed dragon she’d gotten him—not about being _afraid_ or _scared_ or _alone_ , but about tiny little things he’d _missed,_ like waking up and seeing sunshine coming in through the windows, or the smells that came from the kitchen when they were making (or _trying_ to make, she thought dryly) food. It had been such a sweet, almost _innocent_ moment that she’d been _horrified_ when she caught herself smiling softly at it.

_This isn’t right. How dare you act like this—think like this—this isn’t—_

_God, you’re_ awful. She shook her head, staring blindly down at the latest gift she’d come carrying, the box holding a set of duck-patterned curtains she’d spent every free moment of the past week trying to hunt down. _He’s going through_ hell _and you’re—what, you’re looking at him trying to find comfort in something after being in pain for so long and finding it_ cute? _What kind of monstrous, awful bitch—_

“H-Hawkeye.”

There was a tug at her shirt, shy and gentle and pulling her out of her thoughts. She looked over her shoulder to find Ed, golden eyes blinking up at her from beneath bangs long enough to nearly obscure his face. He was wearing, she noted with a strange sort of mournful fondness (one that took even her by surprise) a loose, cozy sweater of a soft mint green that the old Ed wouldn’t have been caught _dead_ in—one, she recalled, that Al had picked out for him after they’d learned the hard way that dark, dull colors reminded him of whatever hell he’d been stuck in. His hair was pulled back loosely—actually brushed, too, for once—and his feet bare, scar-covered hand knotted in the hem of her shirt.

He looked so… _innocent_. Sweet, small, harmless. Like there was nothing of the Fullmetal Alchemist left in him at all, except for those golden eyes and a fondness for the color red. 

She hated it, and hated herself for finding any part of this fragile, broken-winged fledgling of a boy _cute._

The stuffed dragon was perched on his shoulder, button eyes gleaming faintly in the sunlit kitchen as it was left slumped against his neck. “Hawkeye,” he repeated, the word surprisingly steady in a way his legs were not. But at least he was _standing,_ she thought—still had to be carried most of the time, still struggled enough with walking that it was painfully clear that every step hurt, but he could walk a _bit._

And he’d walked to _her._

“Yes, _malo sveta?”_ Ed lit up at the nickname, same as he always did whenever he heard one of the dozen little terms of endearment she’d picked up over the past week and a half, beaming shyly as his hand released the hem of her shirt. Today was going to be a good day, it seemed—better than most. It was the first, she remembered Roy murmuring to her that morning, that he hadn’t woken up in wet, stained sheets, that he hadn’t woken up crying. Not to say he hadn’t cried in the night (Riza had been there for it this time, had held his hand and sat by his bedside while Roy got some much-needed rest and Al was coaxed into taking a break), but the screams had died down before he woke, and he’d only cried a little bit after waking.

She hated that _that_ was the measure of a good day now—Ed crying less than usual, being just a _little_ less scared, being able to walk a few more steps. _Hated_ that the wild, fearless, savage kid she remembered in glimmering scarlet and night-black and roars that shook the office was now scared of the dark and jumped at loud noises and cried when he was afraid. And he couldn’t even _read,_ either, Mustang had told her a few days before, his voice shaking—they’d _taken_ that from him, his burning intelligence and lightning-sharp mind, and left a lost, terrified ghost in place of the Fullmetal Alchemist.

_I’m going to teach him,_ Mustang had said to her, in the same voice he’d used when he’d told her that he was entrusting her with his back, that he was going to climb the ranks and change the country, do something, anything to atone for the red on his ledger. _Even if I have to start from the beginning. Even if I have to—to spend_ years _helping him get it back, I will._

Riza had seen the burning in those eyes, the ghosts of Ishval and the fear that the Fullmetal Alchemist would join that eternal pyre behind his closed eyelids. She had felt it herself, pulsing in her blood—the desire to keep him from joining that river of blood they’d made with their own hands. So she’d set her hand over his and said, _So will I. Every step of the way._

Seeing the faint, fading edge of hope and joy in those shining golden eyes brought that promise rushing back, and she took his hand, squeezed it gently. “Is something wrong, Ed?”

“N-no, I—” His brow furrowed, hand twitching in hers as if he could pluck the words out of the air and pull them into his mind again. “I—I wan’—wanna give h-her a n-name, an’ I c-can’t…d-don’t know ‘nough w-words ‘nymore.” A faint flush colored his cheeks beneath the constant flush of fever—Mustang had better call Knox _today_ , or else she would—a redness brought by shame and sorrow and fear. “S-so—um—h-help?”

Riza resisted the urge to gather him into a hug or ruffle his hair, or some other ridiculous thing that might startle him badly. Instead, she gave his hand another comforting squeeze, carefully nudging the curtains out of his reach. Hopefully, they’d be a nice surprise when he was tucked in for the night, his room finally becoming the comforting safe haven he’d need to recover. She’d even found some sort of glow-in-the-dark stickers (that, thank god, _didn’t_ contain anything radioactive; there had been incidents years before where companies were found using radioactive chemicals in their paints that eventually killed their workers. The horror stories of the poor workers had struck her as a girl, and stayed with her even now) of stars that she hoped to stick up on his ceiling, like comforting little nightlights that might calm him when he woke alone and afraid. “Who’s she, Ed?”

Ed looked almost— _almost—_ indignant, a look that was nothing short of a _pout_ crossing his face as he pressed his cheek against the soft blue dragon. _“She,”_ he explained as thought it should have been obvious ( _stop finding it adorable, stop, stop, damnit),_ nuzzling against the soft stuffed animal. “S-she w-wants a n-name—a-an’ you know l-lots of languages, a-an’—uhm—p-please?” He blinked up at her pleadingly from beneath his bangs, still overgrown (he’d screamed, awful, wordless wails of pure terror when they’d tried to bring anything even vaguely scissor-shaped near him) but brushed enough that she could his eyes and face clearly beneath them. Al had even managed to tie his hair back in a loose, low ponytail with a brightly colored scrunchie that Riza didn’t know the origin of, but Ed seemed delighted by the bright colors.

Oh, this shouldn’t be cute. She should not find this adorable. It was awful of her to find any of this _cute,_ but—

_It’s a good day,_ she reminded herself. _Don’t let him down._ “Of course, _ílie_ _mou.”_

The tremulous smile she got in return could have lit up the entire city, brighter than the deserts of Ishval or the glass towers of Central. Once again fighting the urge to sweep him into a hug, she led him over to the stools lined up at the kitchen island, close enough that she could keep an eye on the tea she was halfway through making without losing sight of him. Carefully, cautiously, hands hovering ready to catch and protect if he should fall, she helped him clamber up onto the stool without losing the stuffed dragon, plucking it up when it seemed likely to tumble from his shoulder and placing it on the safety of the counter.

“Now,” Riza said, and squared her shoulders as though she was about to demand that Mustang _finish his paperwork,_ damn him. She would take this just as seriously, this was _important_ to him and she’d handle it like the paragon of professional behavior she was.  “What kind of name does she want?”

Ed blinked, his brow furrowing ever-so-slightly as he pulled the stuffed animal against his chest again. “K-kind…?” Small fingers began to pluck and worry at the dragon’s soft ear, glimmering golden eyes dropping to the floor. For a single, terrifying second, Riza wondered if she’d set him off, if he was about to cry, if she’d scared him, broken him, taken that fragile trust and ripped it to shreds—but then his eyes rose to hers again, full of _confusion_ rather than fear. _Thank God—thank anything, everything._ “I, uh—w-what—what d’you, u-um, mean?”

She nearly chuckled— _that_ was certainly a question she could answer. It was rare that she _revealed_ that she was something of a polyglot, but she’d gladly do it now if it set him more at ease. “Well, what type of name does she want? A tough name, like a particular alchemist I know of—” Ed tilted his head, looking vaguely confused as his fingers continued to toy with the dragon’s fluffy ear. _Right. He’s in no place right now to consider himself an alchemist, likely hasn’t_ done _alchemy in ages— “_ or a name that sounds beautiful, like a queen or a princess?” She rapped her knuckles thoughtfully on the counter, mind whirling through languages. “If you want, I could help you look up the names of dragons in stories, to see if i— _she_ wants one of them, too.”

Ed worried at his lip for a minute, peering down at the stuffed dragon with an air of thoughtfulness, calmer and more curious than she’d seen him in…God, a _year._ She swallowed back the sudden, shocking grief that ran through her at the memories—golden eyes blazing with a fire so bright it seemed it would drown the world, a young voice powerful enough to shake the foundations of the earth shouting in anger and excitement, dressed in scarlet and black and silver.

She wondered if she’d ever hear that voice again, ever see him in blood-red and night-black and moon-silver, ever see that fierce grin or cocky smirk, ever hear him _laugh._ Not the quiet, choking half-giggle he’d make sometimes before clamping his hand over his mouth, looking suddenly even smaller, even more scared and shaken—but those horrendous, half-mocking cackles that so often filled Mustang’s office. If the Fullmetal Alchemist would ever show himself again, even in just a rare, momentary flash of a smile or a fire that burned in golden eyes that were now only bright with fever and tears.

Riza hoped he would. _Prayed,_ something she rarely did, begged to someone she didn’t believe in, that he would. But even if he didn’t—if _this_ was all they ever got, if he never wore the red coat again, never fought, never so much as touched a transmutation circle—she would be grateful for it. Because it was better than nothing, better than Edward Elric being dead and gone in more than spirit, _infinitely_ better than the strange hole left in all their hearts when he was missing.

The old Ed was gone, true, but this one was every bit as lovable and every bit as _loved,_ and she would spend an eternity proving that to him if she had to.

“B-both.”

The word shocked her out of her thoughts, and she shook her head to clear it before blinking at Ed. He was peering up at her anxiously from beneath his bangs, the stuffed dragon’s black button eyes gleaming in the light of the kitchen. “Pardon?”

“She w-wants—uh—t-tough a-and pretty. P-please,” he added, looking up at her pleadingly, so shy and so sweet that she would have pulled the moon from the sky if he’d asked her to. His hand tightened around the blue fluff of the stuffed dragon, shoulders shaking as he shifted awkwardly on the stool. Was he cold? Hopefully it was just the current illness and not pneumonia setting in, as Knox had warned them. Pneumonia was dangerous enough as it was, several still dying from it yearly, and with Ed in this state…

She wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

And she wasn’t sure if any of them would survive losing him.

Furiously ignoring the sudden _panic_ that seized her heart at the thought of Ed dying, Riza leaned against the counter, delving back into that endless comfort of words and flipping through every tongue she knew. “Of course I can, _solnyshko,”_ she remembered to soothe after a minute of watching him fidget, only realizing that he’d likely been waiting for her to speak after he made a small, frightened noise that sounded like a whimper. “But—are you cold, Ed? I can get you a blanket—”

Ed blanched, so quickly that she worried for a moment he was about to throw up. “Not—n-not allowed,” he protested. “M-Mustang s-said—gotta f-fever, an’—an’ t-too m-much h-heat’s gonna—it’ll be w-worse, an’ then h-he’ll probably—be, um, m-mad.”

They were _definitely_ calling Knox tomorrow. “Roy wouldn’t be mad at you for getting a _blanket,_ Ed.” She rose from the stool, intent on heading over to the couch and grabbing one of the soft throw-blankets that the team kept sending in for Ed (they seemed not to realize that those things _added up_ until there was a _literal stack_ of blankets on that couch, and dozens more now scattered around the apartment). “In fact,” she added, glancing over her shoulder as he gazed up at her through wide, overbright golden eyes, “I don’t think there’s anything you could do that would make him truly mad at you at this point.” _You could scare him half to death and he’d freak out and say something he likely didn’t mean, but he’d_ never _be angry at you, not for any of this._

“B-but—” Ed shook his head wildly, his hand practically crushing the stuffed animal to his chest now— “b-but he looks upset—when I c-cry—and w-when I c-can’t—can’t d-do things, and w-when he’s c-changing the—the bandages, and I d-don’t—”

Oh, _god,_ how long had he been thinking this, struggling with this? The entire week? Every day since the rescue? Had he thought Mustang hated him even when he was captive? That _she_ hated him? Riza choked on the sickening, cloying _horror_ that came at the thought— _did he think this was just an obligation? That we don’t care for him at all? —_ and turned toward him, blanket in hand. “Ed,” she said, and was shocked at the gentleness in her own voice. “He’s not upset with _you, malo sveta._ He’s mad at the people who did this to you, and sad that you’re hurting so much.” _I know, because I am, and Al is, and the rest—we_ all _are. It’s not you—never you._

“B-but—”

“It is _not your fault,_ Ed,” she stressed, meeting his eyes now as she made her way back to the kitchen island—golden, and glowing, and brimming with unshed tears. _He_ does _think it’s his fault,_ she realized. _He still blames himself, after everything. Oh, Ed…_

Riza draped the blanket around thin, shivering shoulders, gently tucking it in around him. “It’s not your fault,” she repeated, gently tilting his chin up. “And you in no way _deserved_ it, no matter what you did, Edward. What happened on you—there are monsters in the world that I wouldn’t wish your pain on. _You did not deserve it.”_  

Ed’s lower lip wobbled, and she couldn’t help the panic that swept her for a moment, icy and bone-chilling and wondering if she’d made everything worse—but then he leaned against her, small and warm and shaking against her side, and whispered, “I k-know what t-to call h-her n-now.”

Her? Riza blinked in confusion, tilting her head—before spying the stuffed dragon settled neatly, safely in his lap and recalling what they’d originally sat down to do. A name—she’d completely forgotten to come up with a good name. _You,_ she scolded herself, _are getting unusually distracted today, Lieutenant Hawkeye. Snap out of it._ “What name are you thinking, Ed?”

And then—then he _smiled._

It wasn’t the smile of the Fullmetal Alchemist, broad and bright and lighting up sparks that could burn down the world. It wasn’t the savage, burning grin of a little boy in Risembool who found purpose again. It wasn’t the smile of any of the Edward Elrics she’d once known. It was shy and halting and fragile, but with a soft sort of warmth that reminded her of the hearth, of the sun not in Ishval but on a spring day in a faraway field.

She would kill, Riza decided, to protect that smile.

“R-Riza,” Ed said, and she opened her mouth, ready to respond to the question no doubt coming—and froze. “M’g-gonna—gonna n-name h-her Riza. Ree f-for s-short.”

Oh.

_Oh._

Riza swallowed around the sudden lump of raw emotion in her throat, the burn of tears in her eyes, and said, “That’s a wonderful name, Ed.”

Ed’s smile widened ever-so-slightly, ever-so-shyly. “I k-know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ree the mvp dragon and riza the mvp mom! leave a kudos or a comment if you enjoyed it, and i'll see you next tuesday!
> 
> solnyshko: small sun, little sun  
> ilie mou: my sun


	10. don't know how to escape from this prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not the cell. No Bar waiting to burn and torture him. No one who would laugh and mock and be cruel.
> 
> _You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay._
> 
> He _wasn’t_ okay, not now—but he _could_ be. Someday. Maybe. 
> 
> _Never._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I Can't Breathe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PYYzy_Ma9Ws) by Bea Miller
> 
>  
> 
> Ed goes to the doctor! It's better and worse than he expected.

The doctor was a little bit less terrifying this time around—maybe because Ed could actually _think,_ and could understand _(sort of)_ what was going on around him, or maybe because Roy and Riza _(Mustang and Hawkeye, don’t be disrespectful don’t be badbadbad)_ and Al were there. Maybe because he had Ree, too, which he _knew_ was a stupid, childish sort of thought—only _really_ little kids needed _stuffed animals_ to comfort them—but he couldn’t help but think it.

Knox’s smile was fake. Ed could tell that much, had looked at the wry smile that-didn’t-quite-look-like-a-smile that the man had given him when Al had carried (because he still couldn’t _walk,_ not really, was still too weak and fragile and _useless,_ couldn’t run or fight even if he had to) him in and known that it wasn’t _really_ a smile. Everyone except Hawkeye and Mustang (and Al, except Al couldn’t smile and that was _all his fault_ and he _couldn’t fix it)_ seemed to wear the same smile-that-was-mostly-a-frown around him, like they were _trying_ to smile but couldn’t, or didn’t know what a smile _was_.

He didn’t really have any right to judge them—he had only managed an actual smile once or twice since the—well, _rescue_ was the only word for it. It was still unsettling, though, and he caught himself squirming closer to Al as the sort-of-not-real smile dropped. His brother’s leather gauntlet rubbed over his back—gently, carefully, as though he knew about all the burns there. Maybe they did—they’d been here when he’d gotten them bandaged, when the doctor had last looked at him. Maybe they all saw the marks of his punishments, his failures, how—how _awful_ and _ruined_ he was. “You okay, Brother?”

 _No._ “Uh-huh.” He clutched Ree to his chest, eyes searching desperately for Mustang and Hawkeye and—there. They were talking to Dr. Knox in voices so low he couldn’t understand them (or maybe his hearing was messed up from what They’d done to it, too—it was certainly a possibility, given—given _everything else)_.

If Al had eyebrows, he thought absently, they’d probably be rising in disbelief right now, or maybe something like shock. He couldn’t really blame him; he wouldn’t have believed himself either. He only held Ree in a death-grip like he was now when he was most definitely not whatever-the-heck okay was for him—and, he thought with a sort of morbid ru—ruefu—amusement? that was the _least_ of the signs that he _wasn’t okay._ “Are you sure?”

 _Not even slightly._ “Mm-hm.”

“You _sure_ you’re sure?”

 _“Al,”_ he whined, and gave the armor a hesitant, gentle _thwack_ with his hand. The burn scar didn’t flare up in pain, and neither did the fear constantly swirling in his stomach, and Ed felt momentarily pleased. Al would never-ever- _ever_ hurt him, which meant that maybe— _maybe_ being really-really- _slightly_ disobedient every now and then _wouldn’t_ make him bad in his little brother’s eyes. Maybe he could start trying to act just a _little_ bit normal around him, instead of this pathetic little _coward_ that _still_ cried at anything and everything, even after _two whole weeks_.

 _Try_ being the operative word, really.

Al laughed, soft and amused, and Ed hummed in quiet relief at the familiar noise. It was rare, he thought, that he heard Al laughing nowadays— _because he’s too busy looking after you,_ a particularly nasty voice hissed, but he pushed it down, ignored it ( _don’t cry not here not now please don’t)_. “I know, Brother, I’m a terrible nag.”

“N-not t-terrible!” How could Al ever think he was terrible? He was brave and strong and even smarter than Ed (though that—that wasn’t exactly _hard_ now. Smarter than Before-Ed, though, certainly worked) and—oh. He was probably joking.

 _He’d_ better _be joking,_ he thought mutinously, the closest to Before-Ed he’d sounded, _felt_ in—in ages and ages and _ages_ —before yelping as Al adjusted him in his grip with another laugh. “Are you sure? How about awful, overbearing, mother-henning nutjob—”

 _“N-no!”_ he protested adamantly—had he ever called Al a mother-henning nutjob Before? Had he called him that _ever,_ even in his head _?_ He couldn’t _think_ of a time when he’d ever done it; maybe Al was just being silly and making things up to keep the joke going. He _hoped_ it was, but maybe—maybe he should apologize anyways, just in case he ever had before and Al really _was_ upset about it. “M’s-so—”

Al hummed gently, and Ed squeaked again as Al’s hand ruffled his hair. “I’m _joking,_ Brother. Besides, if anyone was the mother-henning nutjob, it was you.”

Oh. Oh, so it _was_ part of the joke, not something Ed had actually _said_ to him, thank—thank _something_ that existed out there. “W-was _not_.” But that assessment—was probably fair. Before-Ed might have been loud and bad _(bad by Their standards,_ a voice that sounded like Hawkeye whispered, _not by anyone else’s)_ and selfish sometimes, but he’d definitely tried to sort-of coddle and protect Al whenever he’d gotten the chance. It was his _job_ , wasn’t it? His role and burden as the older brother, to try and preserve as much of his little brother’s innocence and happiness as he possibly could. To protect and defend him against anything, everything that would take that.

 _The same way that he’s trying to protect and defend me,_ he realized. _Like…like equivalent exchange._ It had been so long since he’d thought those two words (banned words bad words _alchemy disobedient badbadbad nonono means hurt means discipline means cold and scary and all alone again)_ that he instinctively jerked up, looking for the Bar in terror and finding—

Just a room in a coroner’s house. Just Roy talking quietly with Knox, just a neat cot in the corner that Al was carrying him over to, just Riza flipping through a notebook and offering an encouraging smile when she sensed his gaze lingering on her.

Not the cell. No Bar waiting to burn and torture him. No one who would laugh and mock and be cruel.

_You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay._

He _wasn’t_ okay, not now—but he _could_ be. Someday. Maybe.

_Never._

“Al?”

“Yeah?”

Ed debated whether he should actually _voice_ the sudden spark of stupid, childish fear that had suddenly bloomed within him. It was a really _dumb_ fear, especially after everything that had already happened. It would make more sense if he was afraid of something like—like _scalpels,_ or even _alchemy_ as a whole (he couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ use it, because he wasn’t allowed and that was _badbadbad wrongwrongwrong,_ but others could and he wouldn’t cry), but he wasn’t. _My brain is_ stupid, he thought with a half-scowl—which he’d already _known_ , really, if They’d already managed to take the—the _alphabet,_ and reading and writing (and subsequently everything else) out of it. “Are t-there—um, needles?”

It sounded even more idiotic than it had in his head, even _more_ childish, and he found himself blinking back tears all over again— _stupidstupidstupid you sound like a_ baby, _stop being so broken stopstopstop._

 _But what if it’s poison?_ a small, panicked voice whispered. _What if it’s another one of those anes—anesthe—_ drugs _that makes my mind go all funny? What if they start—start taking things out and I lose more than reading, what if I lose numbers and speech and free will what if they succeed whatifwhatifwhatif—_

Al made a soft humming noise that pulled him out of his thoughts, steadying Ed as he set him down on the cot and eased himself down beside him. The mattress of the cot squished and shifted beneath them, and Ed pulled his knees to his chest instinctively, hand tight on Ree’s paw as he leaned against his little brother. It was stupid—really, _really_ stupid, even dumber than being scared of needles after all of the _(burning bruising bleeding crying breaking breaking breakingbreakingbreaking) ..._ the _everything_ They’d done and tried and _succeeded_ at doing—but curling up like that, small and surrounded and sort-of-maybe _safe_ made him feel a tiny bit better. Not much, but—just a _little_ bit less likely to cry. “I don’t think so, but I can ask Dr. Knox if you’re worried, Brother.”

No—no, they didn’t need to make trouble, _he_ didn’t need to make trouble and Al didn’t need to make trouble _for Ed. Begoodbegoodbegoodbegood—quiet is good quiet is safe quiet means no more hurt begoodbegoodbegood._ Instinctively, his fingers drifted from Ree to his mouth again, slipping in soundlessly as he bit down against the tears welling up against his will. _No questions no questions no questions._

_You’re brave. You’re brave, and you’re strong._

_It was not your fault._

Mustang’s words, Hawkeye’s words, kind and strong and proud and— _lies, lies, you’re weak and broken and scared all the time and it’s all your fault you deserve this you deserve all of this._ Ed shook his head wildly, whimpering around his fingers as he felt the others drag their gazes to him, curling up even more and squeezing his eyes shut, wishing he could dissolve into tiny particles of dust and air and darkness _(small is safe small is safe small is safe and good and won’t get you hurt stay small). M’sorrysorrysorry wanna go home please—_

“Brother?” Al’s voice was gentle, understanding, but there was a waver within it that pulled painfully at his chest. It made Ed want to cry even _more,_ made him hate himself for making his brother have to treat him with kid gloves again and again and _again._ There was a soft pressure against his chest—Ree, he realized dimly, pressed into the crook of his arm. “It’s okay. We’re all here—and you’re here, you’re right next to me and you’re _safe.”_

 _Safe—safesafesafesafe wanna go home now pleasepleaseplease take me home take me away don’t wanna be here hurtshurtshurts._ He pressed himself against Al’s side, trembling as footsteps echoed across the floor. A hand gently wrapped around his wrist and tugged it from his mouth, large and calloused and warm— _Mustang?_ “Breathe,” came the instructions, the voice as familiar and comforting as a blanket around his shoulders. A hand wrapped itself gently around his own, pressed their twined fingers over his heart, beating like the wings of a hummingbird, fast and stuttering and _weakweakweak._ “In and out, buddy. Start with one deep breath in, okay?”

Ed heard the sound of an inhale and tried desperately to mimic it, sucking in a long, shallow, shuddery breath. It _hurt,_ pulled at his chest painfully, and he choked on a sob, shaking his head. _No…don’t wanna don’t wanna don’t wanna please!_ “H-hurts…”

“I know, kiddo, I know, but it’ll help.” Another hand folded around his, squeezing it soothingly. “Now exhale with me, okay?” Ed tried to let the breath out just as Mustang did, his hand shaking in the man’s grip as he whimpered, shaking his head wildly again. “Good. Now, can you open your eyes for me, Ed?”

Coroner’s house. Just a coroner’s house, and Al, and Roy and Riza, and Knox. Just a cot underneath him and wooden floors and safety. Not the cell, not concrete and iron and bars and punishments waiting at every turn. Just—just his family, and the doctor that was going to (hopefully—maybe, if he stopped being such a little _coward_ and pulled himself together) help him.

_Grow up be strong grow up be strong grow up be strong—_

Ed forced his eyes open, let the world blur from smudges of color to dizzyingly bright precision, whimpering as tears spilled steadily down his cheeks. Mustang’s worried face swam into view, dark eyes bright with concern and hands wrapped around his small, broken one. Hawkeye was hovering just a step away, Al’s hand on his shoulder, even _Knox_ eyeing him with concern—because he, this _thing_ he had become, merited that kind of concern. Because he was _weak,_ and _ruined,_ and they felt obligated to put up with him somehow. _Hatethishatethishatethis…_

“I know, Fullmetal,” Mustang soothed, and Ed jolted at the realization he’d spoken aloud—jolted at the weariness in his voice, the sorrow there. _All your fault, all your fault, all your fault._ “I know.” He whimpered as his hand was released, only to gasp as he was swept into a hug, lifted again. Close—comfortable— _safe—_

“To answer your question, kid,” Knox said dryly, before Ed could burst into tears all over again and dissolve into tears and childish panic, “there’s gonna be no needles involved.” The man was trying for a smile again, but even through tear-blurred eyes and peering over Mustang’s shoulder, he could see that it was cracking at the edges. “I _do_ need you to put the kid down so I can check out how his injuries are doing and give him something for the fever, though, Colonel.”

No— _no,_ he didn’t want to be put down, let go of, _abandoned_. He forced his fingers not to tighten in Mustang’s jacket, forced himself not to shake and cry as he was set down next to Al again. His fingers twisted in the soft, pale-blue fleece of the shirt he was wearing, realizing dimly that he’d have to take it off for the doctor to look at the wounds on his back and stomach and almost everywhere else.

Panic, sudden and wild and cloying, clawed at his throat, closed it up. He hadn’t cared that first night—hadn’t cared about much but not letting go and being warm and _free_ again (he hadn’t thought about it then, about the way the cell crept into his mind, about how it might claw at his mind every night). But now— _now—_

Now it was _terrifying._

He managed, though—managed not to cry as he struggled to tug it over his head, managed not to whimper and sob when they unwound the bandages, managed not to cower away when they looked horrified at the scars, when Knox quietly asked him to turn around so he could see the ones on his back again.

“The whip-marks are nearly entirely healed,” Knox said matter-of-factly, and Ed heard Al flinch beside him. “The burns are newer, so those are taking longer, but there’s no signs of infection, and the broken ribs are nearly healed as well.” With every injury named, Ed felt Al jolt and shudder and shift beside him, as if the words _hurt._ Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the man tilting his head to give his little brother an almost-amused look. “What, you weren’t listening the first time around?”

Ed, for a moment, dared to wonder what would happen if he bit the man for being so cold to his little brother.

“N-no, I—”

“It’s always a shock,” Riza said quietly, “when someone you love is scarred and broken so callously. When you look at them and at first see nothing but a stranger.”

 _Stranger—stranger, I’m a—I’m just a—_ He choked on something like a sob, bowing his head as the others stared at his scars, his punishments, his _failures. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry._

 _But she said they love you,_ a tiny voice whispered over the ones that sounded like Them. _That Al, at least, still loves you, even knowing what you lost. That they aren’t going to leave you._

 _They_ promised _. And none of them are the type to break promises._

Childish and stupid, to put so much stock in promises—but they were all Ed had at this point. He’d take every one they gave him and guard it jealously.

More salve was spread on his back, words whispered to Riza and Roy before his shirt was pulled back over his head again. Ed huddled gratefully into the soft fleece of it, focusing on the tiny bit of dignity restored as Knox looked at his throat and eyes and ears and nose, felt his forehead and checked for signs of infection. “Persistent fucker of a cold,” he said finally, “but it’s still a cold. I’ll give you some medicine for the fever,” he added to the adults standing beside him. “You’re probably gonna need someone to look at the automail, though.”

Oh.

That—that’d probably be good, right? Because even if it wasn’t making him sick, it still ached—a lot worse on some days than others—and he knew the stories of automail infection well, knew that Winry would kill him if he ever got infected and died of it—

_Winry._

“But it wasn’t infected,” Mustang was saying as the name bounced around in Ed’s head, hand instinctively grabbing for Ree. _WinryWinryWinryWinryWinry—_

“You want him to be able to walk again, don’t you? A leg that isn’t attached to whatever the hell those people did to him might help.” Knox rose to his feet. “Your body’s gonna pull through, kid. Small miracles, since you were nearly dead when you came in a week and a half ago.”

This time, Ed noticed dully, too focused on the realization that his automail needed repair—needed _Winry,_ who didn’t know he was _like this,_ didn’t know he was even _alive_ (unless someone told her, but who _knew,_ who _would)_ —Roy was the one to shudder, as if the memory was something awful for him. He couldn’t focus on it, though, seeing the ghost of blue eyes and hair like daffodil petals flicker before his eyes—seeing nothing but her, and dreading it all.

_I’m…going to have to see Winry again. Like…this._

_She’s going to see—going to_ know— _she’s going to_ hate _me—_

The fear, the revulsion and blinding agony, they built up and built up and built up _and up and up and upupup—_

Until—to his own mortification, to the horror and worry of the others, to the laughter of the voices in his head—Ed burst into tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MORE BROTHERS BONDING--and Ed feeling a tiny bit better! At least until he finds out about Winry, and thinks about needles, and...yeah.
> 
> BUT HEY. WINRY!!!!
> 
> also, we've reached 3045 hits. what the heck. i love u all so much holy shit thank youuuuu!!!
> 
> as always, leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed it, and i'll see you next tuesday


	11. stuck in the dark but you're my flashlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looked…
> 
> Well, he looked almost _normal._ Shaking and thin and terrifyingly frail, but the closest to stable he’d acted since they’d found him again. That was what Roy was afraid of, though—that it was an _act,_ a façade he was keeping up for Winry’s sake (he did remember the kid saying something a long, long time ago about hating to see her cry) and that it would end up doing more harm than good. Worst of all would be if it completely crumbled when she walked through the door, and prompted a panic from both of them—and from Al as well.
> 
>  
> 
> _This is fantastic. I literally cannot see this going well in any capacity. Wonderful._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WINRY!!! And a v sad, scared Ed and his overprotective family. Enjoy!
> 
> [Flashlight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RUsOtEV4zAs) cover by Kurt Hugo Schneider.

Roy could’ve told anyone involved that this was going to be an utter and absolute disaster—including himself and his attempts to convince himself that the very _idea_ of Fullmetal freaking out again _didn’t_ make him want to immediately wrap his arms around the kid and protect him from _everything._ Even if— _especially_ if—that _everything_ included his childhood best friend.

Logically, of course, Roy knew that Winry Rockbell would never do anything to hurt her old friend. He’d met the girl a handful of times, and she was kind without fail (and a dozen times more respectful than Ed had been at the time—god, he would do _anything_ to hear the kid call him “Colonel Bastard” again). She was good with a wrench, of course, but she’d only ever used it when Ed was capable of taking the hit. And as Ed was decidedly _not_ (despite the fact that he’d been managing to eat a little more, he was still so tiny that it seemed a stray breeze could knock him over without even trying), there was no way that would happen. Hell, she was more likely to scare him by trying to hug him unexpectedly than by actually _hurting_ him—or even considering it, for that matter.

Ed, however, was convinced otherwise.

In fact, Ed was convinced that Winry would hate him for being small and weak and useless, hadn’t slept for two days straight and cried at the drop of a hat. He was _distraught,_ and nothing Roy or Hawkeye or even _Al_ said could convince him that he _wasn’t_ to blame for any of this and of _course_ Winry wouldn’t think it was his fault. Havoc, in fact, had to be the one who made the call to Miss Rockbell because none of them could leave Ed’s side without prompting a full-scale panic (Hawkeye had tried, and Ed’s wail of absolute _terror_ had nearly brought Al—who couldn’t even physically _cry_ —to tears).

It wasn’t as if _all_ the progress made since his rescue had vanished, but a lot of it…there was a lot missing. A lot more that Ed was clearly, painfully _aware_ was missing and feeling deeply inferior for it, small and almost subhuman, a state that those _monsters_ had likely drilled into him and one that the kid jumped back to whenever he was frightened (which was painfully often). And right now, faced with the prospect of Winry’s visit, he was absolutely _terrified._

So needless to say, Roy wasn’t _exactly_ thrilled by the coming visit.

They were going to make it as comfortable for him as possible, though. Originally, Riza had suggested having it in the offices so that Ed wouldn’t attach any mishaps, any _pain_ that came of the visit to the apartment that was now the closest thing he had to a home (Roy hoped that one day Ed _would_ think of it as home, whether he recovered fully or not, that he’d know he could always come back). Which was an excellent idea, except for the part that smuggling in a one-armed, easily frightened teenager with golden eyes and hair would immediately alert the military (and by extension, the higher-ups, the Fuhrer, everyone they _didn’t_ want knowing) to the fact that Edward Elric had been found, _alive…_ and that Roy’s team had been hiding him. Which, in turn, would have resulted in him being forcibly removed from his custody, likely hospitalized and abandoned when they discovered the state of his mind, Al taken to their labs for the study of soul transmutation and his team left at the mercy of anyone who felt even _slightly_ irritated with them.

Roy couldn’t let that happen. Not to Fullmetal, not to Alphonse, not to Riza, not to Havoc and Breda and Falman and Fuery. Not to _any_ of the people he cared about, the small pocket of almost-family he’d carved out of ambition and obligation.

So they were having it here in the apartment instead—out of Ed’s room, so that the glowing stars and duck-patterned curtains and wine-red bedspread would remain a comfort, a safe haven rather than a painful reminder of an encounter gone wrong. They weren’t even in the little kitchen-and-sitting area that Ed had quite unintentionally taken over, his favorite blanket always at the reading on the couch and treats just waiting for the day that he was strong enough to eat them sitting in the cupboards. No, they were settled in the _formal parlor._

Roy hadn’t even remembered that he had a _formal parlor;_ most company before what he was starting to call That Night just stayed in the aforementioned kitchen-and-sitting area attached to the foyer and rarely stayed over—and of course, after That Night, Ed and Al and Riza had become such permanent fixtures in his apartment that they counted less as company and more as _residents_. Formally, he was the only one, of course, but Ed and Al had nowhere else to go, and with Riza showing up nearly every day regardless of her duties…

Well, Roy was certainly in no position to pursue a relationship of any sort at the moment, but _maybe…_ maybe one day, when— _if_ things got better, he’d think about it. And probably do nothing more than think, if he was being honest; their lives, their ambitions made no room for something like that.

For now, though, it was just their little ramshackle imitation of a family huddled around an armchair laden with blankets and the boy curled up beneath them. He was sitting up against the back of the chair, but shivering hard enough that Roy could _feel_ it through the comforting hand he kept on his shoulder—not from fever (the medicine Knox had given them was doing its work, thank whatever deity was listening, and it had steadily been going down since the not-as-disastrous-as-expected appointment two days prior), but from fear and nerves. _He’s probably so jacked up on thoughts of what_ might _happen that he won’t be able to handle what_ actually _happens,_ Roy thought, and tried to pretend that a sharp, visceral horror didn’t sear through him at the thought. _Even if nothing goes wrong, he might still freak out._

Well, that went for almost everything at this point, but if it happened _today…_ well, it would be that much more damaging to poor Ed. And probably to Winry as well— _and_ to Al.

 _They’re children. They’re all—they’re all_ children _forced to grow up too fast._ He swallowed thickly, hating himself, for a moment, for dragging the boys into the military at _eleven and twelve years old_. _This wouldn’t have happened if not for you. None of it._

Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he’d saved Edward and Alphonse Elric by giving them a purpose—or damned them to this fate of unending pain and unanswerable questions. But now wasn’t the time to question it. If anything, now was the time to _make up for it,_ to protect them when he couldn’t before, and give them as much comfort and safety as humanly possible.

Though _perhaps,_ he admitted to himself, trying _not_ to glare at the ever-so-slightly ajar door, trying to protect Ed from his own childhood friend was a little foolish. It was growing increasingly difficult to curb the urge to defend Ed (and, the two going hand-in-hand as always, Alphonse) from anything and everything, _not_ to hover and protect and be a shield _for_ him rather than a sword. Ed had responded well to the affection, the protection, true, but would he recover better, push himself a bit more if Roy drew away a bit? Or would he shut down completely?

Either was a possibility at this point. The latter was something Roy couldn’t risk.

His gaze drifted to the boy huddled in the soft armchair, the exhaustion-glazed aureate eyes that hadn’t moved from the door since they’d settled in the parlor. He’d been unusually silent this morning, especially when compared to the constant cries and utter terror (and complete disaster on his and Hawkeye’s part) that had been the past two days, limping after them for as long as he could manage before quietly asking (with _words,_ and wasn’t that a goddamn miracle at this point) to be carried. He’d let Al brush his hair out and tie it back in a loose ponytail, so long at this point that it touched the small of his back, and had managed to keep down nearly all of his breakfast. The only outward signs of his anxiety at the encroaching visit were his white-knuckled grip on Ree (the little stuffed dragon had gone everywhere with him since Riza had given it to him; loathe though Roy was to say it, it was kind of adorable) and the shivers that ran through his small body.

He looked…

Well, he looked almost _normal._ Shaking and thin and terrifyingly frail, but the closest to stable he’d acted since they’d found him again. That was what Roy was afraid of, though—that it was an _act,_ a façade he was keeping up for Winry’s sake (he did remember the kid saying something a long, long time ago about hating to see her cry) and that it would end up doing more harm than good. Worst of all would be if it completely crumbled when she walked through the door, and prompted a panic from both of them—and from Al as well.

_This is fantastic. I literally cannot see this going well in any capacity. Wonderful._

Roy glanced at Riza, perched on the arm of Ed’s chair and watching both door and boy like…well, like a hawk, the compassion in her gaze tempered by steel and dark determination. Her eyes drifted to his, sharp and filled with concern, reflecting his worries back at him. _And if even Hawkeye can’t see a way out of this…_

“Hello, Colonel Mustang, Lieutenant Hawkeye? Lieutenant Havoc said I should meet you here…” There was a hesitant knock. “Are you there?”

_We’re screwed._

Ed had frozen, eyes going wide and panicked as he pressed the stuffed dragon more tightly against his chest. Roy couldn’t help giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze, praying that it was encouraging rather than frightening; he whipped his head around, the look of panic on his face easing as he caught sight of Roy and nestled back into the blankets. Hawkeye glanced at him again, rising to her feet and nodding to Al, who’d been pacing the room with a restlessness Roy might have once attributed to his older brother.

The armor brightened a bit, shooting a quick look at Ed—who was paling a bit, but still silent, eyes still free of tears for now—before darting over to the door and pulling it open. “Hi, Winry!” Roy winced at the slight quaver in Alphonse’s voice, the forced cheerfulness injected into it. “Thanks for coming—”

Winry Rockbell slipped under Al’s arm, nudging the door shut behind her. Blue eyes, so full of hope that Roy couldn’t help pitying her, couldn’t help wishing there was something he could do to prepare her for the moment those hopes came crashing down, swept the room, her boots thumping lightly on the floor and bag in hand. She offered them both a bright smile in greeting, untampered by grief and glowing with restored hope. “Of course I came, Al.” She threw another warm, brilliant smile over her shoulder at him. “I would’ve come up here the second you told me he was back if…”

Her smile faltered, eyes finally drifting to the frozen, frightened form settled in the chair before her. That hope drained away like rain through a gutter after a downpour, swift and sudden and inexorable, her face paling as her fingers trembled around the bag handle.

 _Ah,_ Roy thought dazedly as Al quickly crossed the room to stand beside his brother, crouching next to him as Ed instinctively leaned against the comforting presence. _That’s who he was calling that day, then._ “Miss Rockbell,” he made himself say aloud. “I—I know this has to be a shock—”

“I c-can t-talk for my—m-myself.” Ed twisted his head to look up at him from where he leaned against Al, knees pulled to his chest. There were tears welling up there, barely held back, his knees pulled to his chest—but there was a strange _desperation_ there, too, to prove himself to his friend, his brother, even to Riza and Roy. To prove that he was healing, that he was _okay—_ even if he so clearly _wasn’t._ “A l-little—s-sort of.” His gaze flicked between him and Winry, shoulders trembling as he pressed Ree against his chest, that desperation bright and burning behind eyes like broken glass. “I m-mean—if it’s o-okay—”

God, nothing could’ve stopped Roy from giving the kid whatever he wanted—not with those eyes shining up at him so desperately, glistening with unshed tears. “Of course it’s okay, kiddo.” He glanced at Riza, who nodded in agreement, her hand resting soothingly on Ed’s back. “We’ll take over if you need us, alright?”

Ed ducked his head, fingers twining tightly in the soft blue fluff pressed to his chest. “U-uh-huh.” Roy watched with his heart in his throat—God, when had he gotten so _protective_ of Fullmetal? —as he shifted in the soft armchair, the blanket tucked around his shoulders slipping and revealing the edges of burn scars creeping up his back. Golden eyes drifted to blue ones steadily filling with tears—and held that gaze, aching with pain and grief and loss.

“M’s-sorry, Winry.”

It was as if the ground had dropped out from beneath Roy, plunging him into a pit of icy water and darkness and horrible, _horrible_ dread and equally horrible certainty. _I knew he was scared of her hating him, but this…_ He forced himself not to tighten his grip on Ed’s shoulder despite the sudden need to grab hold of something, to drag himself out of that pit. Riza’s face was equally pale, all color draining from it. Al gave a shudder that Ed didn’t seem to pick up on, a choked noise escaping him.

He thought that Winry Rockbell—maybe that _all_ of them—were upset with him. That it was all _his_ fault. _After all this—after everything…_

_We’ve failed him again._

Because if he still believed that, didn’t it mean they’d failed? That they hadn’t done enough, shown him enough, _told_ him enough? That they were still letting him suffer even now?

Winry’s hands flew up at the words, covering her mouth as tears began to glide down her cheeks, Ed barreling on with a strange unknowing ruthlessness. “M’sorry f-for—for l-losing the a-arm again, a-an’ making y-you w-worry, and b-breaking the l-leg.” Ree dropped into his lap as he rapped his knuckles against the metal of his knee, almost absentmindedly. “And m-making you c-come all t-the way up h-here—when you have o-other clients, and ‘cause I c-can’t p-pay, a-and—” He shook his head wildly, hand fluttering toward his mouth as though he’d bite down on his fingers again. “A-and f-for b-being like—like _t-this—_ all w-weak and—and _b-broken,_ a-and m’so, s-so _s-sorry—”_

Winry let out a raw, anguished cry at the sheer self-loathing, the pure _disgust_ that dripped from those last words. Roy felt close to doing the same, close to crying from the thousands of silent voices that told Fullmetal that _every single day,_ until he so clearly believed it _. We need to tell him more,_ he thought wildly, _tell him how proud we are, how much he’s loved—tell him things that_ shut those voices up, _or quiet them, at least—oh,_ Ed…

Al was shaking hard enough that Ed finally registered it, peering up at his little brother worriedly as he bowed his head, choked, dry sobs echoing. “Al—Al, _n-no,_ s’not y-your fault—p-please d-don’t be sad, Al—” Then a choked squeak as Al pulled him into his arms, cradling him like he had That Night, head bowed over him and soulfire eyes burning as he tried and failed to weep. Roy watched, frozen by grief and sorrow and fear as Ed hesitantly reached up to touch Al’s face. “A-Al?” Ed’s own tears began to spill over, the child shivering in his little brother’s arms, apologizing frantically all over again, a litany of “sorries” spilling past his lips as he clung to him. 

But Al had no strength left for words after all the truth Ed had let bleed, and Roy felt quite the same—and so did Riza, her stoic expression wavering and amber eyes glistening with something that looked suspiciously like tears. Hesitantly, unable to keep his own hands from shaking against the burning in his eyes, he laid his hand over hers. She didn’t move, didn’t look at him, and he didn’t look at her, either—didn’t look at anything—but the knowledge that she was _there,_ would always be _there,_ was more comfort than he could have ever expected.

A sob drew his eyes open again, and he looked up to see Winry, eyes squeezed shut as tears streamed down her cheeks, hands pressed over her mouth as she tried to quiet her cries of grief—realizing, Roy knew (as they all had, one by one by one), that the Edward Elric she knew was dead. That this one was more scared and hurt and broken than any of them knew how to fix, that maybe he couldn’t _be_ fixed, and that none of them—mechanic, alchemist, sharpshooter, war “hero”—knew how to put the little bits of broken glass and diamond dust that made up _Ed_ back together. She hunched in on herself, muffled cries breaking past the mask she was valiantly trying to fix in place, and Roy felt a sudden stab of empathy for her.

And Ed—Ed’s head jerked up at the sound of her cries, golden eyes going wide despite the flowing tears as he stared at Winry. “W-Win—uh—” He looked around, almost frantic, looking more and more panicked the longer he stared at them all—at what that brutal, broken honesty had done to every single one of them. Roy’s heart broke at the whimper he let out, at the fear and self-loathing flickering through those eyes as his gaze drifted back to the grieving girl in front of him. “P-please d-don’ c-cry,” he begged, his voice terrifyingly small—before suddenly scrabbling for the armchair again, struggling in Al’s arms before his eyes landed on Roy, bright with pleading. “P-please—”

And with a sudden clarity, Roy knew what he was after.

Gently, he scooped up the stuffed dragon flopped against the side of the chair, passing it into Ed’s reaching, desperate hands. The tension ran out of his body the moment it was back in his arms, Ed going limp and cuddling it to his chest for a moment—before thrusting it at Winry, eyes wide with a sudden, desperate hope. “Y-you c-can—you c-can h-have her, if you w-want! If it—if i-it makes it h-hurt less. She makes—um, m-makes me feel l-less s-sad, so—y-you can—if i-it h-helps?” He ducked his head after he finished, curling up tight and small in Al’s arms, those glimmering aureate eyes peeking fearfully out over his knees—waiting, Roy realized, to see how Winry reacted.

 _It’s on you, now,_ he begged the girl to understand as blue eyes slowly opened, staring at the shell of her best friend before her. _Whatever you do, don’t…don’t break him, Winry Rockbell._

Winry just blinked, before letting out a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh; Ed jerked back at the sound, whimpering— _please don’t be laughing at him,_ Roy thought, suddenly terrified, _he’ll shatter if you do that—_ as she slowly knelt in front of him, fiddling in the pockets of her jacket before pulling out—

Hair-ties.

Brightly-colored, glimmering hair-ties almost every color of the rainbow, some dusted with what looked like silver or gold or patterned with beads. Ed’s eyes went wide as she held them out to him, her hands shaking slightly. Roy watched the child’s head jerk up, watched as Al fell silent, as Winry put on a tremulous smile. “Lieutenant Havoc told me that—that bright colors like this made you feel safer now, so I got these for you on the way here. I t-thought—I thought m-maybe, if you let me, I could do your hair before I looked at your leg and arm, that it might make you feel—I don’t know, safer, or _something,_ but…”

She swallowed, tears slipping down her cheeks again, before saying firmly, “Ed, I don’t blame you for _any_ of it—the arm, the leg, what those—those _m-monsters_ did to you.” She set the hair-ties gently in his lap, tugged Ree from his fingers and settled the stuffed animal there as well before wrapped her hands around his. “I’m never abandoning you, Ed. _Never._ And I’m just…I’m so _u-upset_ that they made you feel so _w-worthless—”_ Her breath hitched on a sob, and she wiped roughly at her eyes. “ _I’m_ sorry, Ed.”

Ed blinked at her, raw shock and overwhelming relief (and disbelief, awful though it was) sweeping across his face—blinked at her, and at the hair-ties, and at the dragon in his lap—before hesitantly tugging on her hand. “W-Winry?”

Roy watched as the mechanic’s smile trembled, fingers never shying from the scar covering his skin as she squeezed his hand in response. “Yeah?”

“C-can you…can y-you do a—a braid?” Ed fiddled with the hem of his shirt shyly before whispering, “P-please?”

Winry Rockbell’s smile solidified to something bright and warm and utterly unshakable despite the tears that poured down her cheeks. “Absolutely, Ed.”

The visit ended in tears after all, just as Roy had predicted—but it was the tears of two childhood friends clinging to each other despite everything, weeping and grieving together and never letting go. Roy thought that was a pretty fair trade for the shy, beaming smile Ed had worn when Winry plaited his hair and tied it off with a ridiculous bright orange hair-tie, and the Maes-Hughes-worthy picture of the moment he’d pinned to the refrigerator.

_Yeah, that’s…fairer than the world’s been to any of us in a long, long time._

He glanced at the picture again as Ed chattered excitedly to Al and Winry at the kitchen counter, the most talkative he’d been since they’d found him, Riza helping him prepare dinner—and really, truly _smiled._

_And hopefully, it marks a chance to move forward._

_For all of us._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment or a kudos if you liked it, and I'll see you next Tuesday! And if you want to talk fic--this one, or any AU in general--you can find me @sacredtreasurealdan on tumblr and "definitely mads#4809" on discord. Hope to chat with you soon!


	12. lost your mind in the sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her—he was _her_ child. Not in blood, not by much other than battles shared and souls twined and a sense of responsibility toward the small, shaking thing that now curled against her, but it was _enough._ Enough to give her this terrifying, all-consuming feeling of love and protectiveness and fear so deep and wild that it _hurt,_ crushing her chest in its grip. Enough to bypass everything she’d told herself, everything she’d used to remind herself that of all the people in the world who had a right to have children, who were whole enough to hold their child close and trust that they had a _chance_ of doing right by them, she was not and never would be one of them. Enough to make him _hers,_ to protect and comfort and go to goddamn _war_ for.
> 
> Riza never wanted to see war again, but she would, she realized suddenly. She would march off to that battlefield in a _heartbeat,_ if it meant Ed would be safe, happy, _alive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [King](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dS5GfL9F7L4) by Lauren Aquilina. 
> 
> SATs today, wish me luck!

Winry stayed for four days after that, fine-tuning and adjusting Ed’s leg so it would be easier to walk on, and, Riza knew, adjusting to Ed’s state herself. She’d seen the girl slip up from time to time, words spilling out that brought tears to Ed’s eyes and frantic apologies to hers, seen her weep silently over some quiet realization, had watched her sink onto the leather couch that had become everyone’s go-to place for a bit of quiet and mourn for the friend she lost. But she’d also watched Winry grow fiercely protective of him over those four short days, and fiercely affectionate as well, always ready with a hug or a hand to hold the second he (shyly, haltingly, as though he wasn’t quite sure he deserved it) asked for it.

Ed, in turn, seemed to absolutely adore her for all of it, talking more than usual and practically bouncing around the small apartment whenever he’d had the strength—which had been surprisingly, almost _worryingly_ often. His leg was getting better, certainly functioning more easily and causing him less pain, but it seemed almost… _supernaturally_ quick. Even their farewell hadn’t been quite as teary as expected. She’d hoped along with the others that it was for the best, but it…felt _off,_ like something wasn’t quite right.

It wasn’t until the day she’d left for Risembool that Riza realized he might have been putting on a show, hiding the worst of it so that those four days would go by with some semblance of happiness. Hell, it wasn’t until she found him huddled on the couch, staring at the door and clutching Ree that she’d realized he’d been pretending for Winry’s sake all along.

She wondered, for a moment, if she should leave him to this quiet mourning, to the tears gliding down his face and the shaking of his hand as it held the stuffed animal close to his chest. Every single scrap of spirit left in her rejected the idea, loathed the thought of leaving him to cry alone, to _suffer_ after failing him so much before. Edward Elric had been crying alone, lost and frightened and hopeless, for a _year._ There was no way in hell she’d leave him to it now.

Still, her footsteps were hesitant as she approached, a mug of hot chocolate held in her hand as a sort of…she didn’t know what, exactly. A gift, a comfort, a peace offering? Something to calm, or soothe, or excite? Would it _help—_ or would it do more harm than good, frighten him, _hurt_ him again? He was doing better than when they’d found him, but the ground they walked on was littered with broken glass and barbed wire, unsteady under their feet even on the best of days. Anything could still scare him, startle him, take a bad day and make it worse. Anything they did could end up bringing more pain than comfort, and that…that was terrifying.

Riza set her jaw, wrapping her hands more securely around the sweet drink, and did not falter as she eased herself down beside Ed. _It’s whatever he needs it to be, I suppose._ “Winter’s nearly here,” she offered by way of greeting, holding it out to him apprehensively. “Perfect weather for something warm and sweet, don’t you think?”

Ed jolted at her voice, a small whimper that tore painfully at Riza’s heart escaping him, before red-rimmed golden eyes peeked out at her from beneath his bangs. Those eyes brightened faintly with recognition, adoration, _trust_ (and god, that was _terrifying_ beyond words), and he curled into her side with a quiet whine. She chuckled before she could stop herself, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and tucking him closer against her side before presenting the chocolate, a glittering straw warped into spiraling loops stuck into it. “Mustang has a strange collection of oddly-shaped straws,” she added. “I figured you might find this one amusing.”

Ed giggled softly at it, the sound small and soft and halting (and so utterly, _heartbreakingly_ precious that Riza ached to preserve it forever, to find a way to keep the pain and doubt and darkness from ever touching him again). “I-it’s pink.”

Her mouth turned up at the corners. “Mm-hm.”

“W-why’s he g-got a…”

Riza chuckled. “You’ll have to ask him, _solnyshko.”_

Ed hummed, lips twitching up in the faintest approximation of a smile at the nickname, before hesitantly taking a sip of the hot cocoa. Riza watched in amusement as his eyes widened at the sweetness. “Not too hot?”

He shook his head, golden eyes bright with something _other_ than tears and fever for once. Her heart warmed at the sight, the worry quieting for a moment as she watched a tremulous, halting, but oh-so _real_ smile spread across his face. “T-thank y-you,” he whispered shyly, and took another sip of it. “S’g-good.”

They sat in silence like that for a moment: Riza’s hands wrapped tightly around Ed’s as it trembled around the cup, his small, fragile body tucked against her side and under her arm as she helped him sip at the hot cocoa. He was shaking ever-so-slightly, she noticed, and she wondered where the thermostat was. With winter well on its way, even with his cold steadily disappearing under the constant care and aid of medicine (trying to get him to take the medicine had been… _interesting,_ and resulted in quite the adorable half-scowl when he discovered the taste), keeping him warm was the best way to keep him safe.

“R-Riza?”

She glanced down at him, absentmindedly smoothing his hair with her fingers. It was braided today, much more loosely than it had been before the kidnapping (and far more clumsily), but Winry had done it and Ed had refused to take it out since. “Yes, _malo sveta?”_

“W-winter?” His brow furrowed, his face vaguely confused, a smudge of whipped cream on his lip. She swept it away with her thumb before he could notice it, golden eyes fixed on her face. “I-it’s…s’winter?”

 _He doesn’t know it’s—oh._ She shook her head after a moment. _He hasn’t been outside except for when we visited Knox, and I doubt he had any access to a calendar when those…_ monsters _had him._ No longer was the anger in her heart a quiet thing; it was wild, crackling like lightning and swirling with the force of a hurricane, waiting and seething and snarling, hungry for its chance to strike down those who dared touch this child.

Her—he was _her_ child. Not in blood, not by much other than battles shared and souls twined and a sense of responsibility toward the small, shaking thing that now curled against her, but it was _enough._ Enough to give her this terrifying, all-consuming feeling of love and protectiveness and fear so deep and wild that it _hurt,_ crushing her chest in its grip. Enough to bypass everything she’d told herself, everything she’d used to remind herself that of all the people in the world who had a right to have children, who were whole enough to hold their child close and trust that they had a _chance_ of doing right by them, she was not and never would be one of them. Enough to make him _hers,_ to protect and comfort and go to goddamn _war_ for.

Riza never wanted to see war again, but she would, she realized suddenly. She would march off to that battlefield in a _heartbeat,_ if it meant Ed would be safe, happy, _alive._

“Yes, _ílie mou,”_ she croaked finally, praying the burning in her eyes hadn’t spilled over. “It’s December now.”

Ed blinked again, confusion still written over his face… before giving way to horror, sickening and stark on that too-pale face. “T-then I’m—then i-it’s—”

“Been a year,” she finished, and she could _feel_ his shaking increase, feel the traitorous droplets of warmth slowly slip down her skin. “You’re fifteen now, Ed.” Her hands shook as she set the hot chocolate on the small table beside the couch, her heart breaking as he buried his face in her side with a low, pitiful moan that trailed into an aching sob at the end. _Oh, Ed…_ “I thought…”

What had she thought, that he _knew?_ No, she’d known full well that he hadn’t, and had—well, not _kept_ it from him, not purposefully, but she hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t dared bring it up. Now Ed was struggling to fit the gap in which he’d been gone into the torment he’d suffered, trying to wrap his head around it when she was supposed to be _comforting_ him, and _god,_ she’d just fucked this up so impossibly _badly_ that it was horrifying to see. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and shifted so that he was almost in her lap, wrapping her arms around him and setting her chin atop his head. “I’m so, so sorry, _solnyshko.”_

Ed didn’t answer, just shook in her arms and wept quietly, clinging to her desperately. There was no blame in his eyes, on his face, in his body language. Though part of her had known that Ed would never be mad at her (maybe _couldn’t_ be mad at her, after what those _monsters_ did to him), but that almost made it _worse—_ like she was taking advantage of his kindness, his quiet, that scarred, selfless heart to avoid feeling bad about herself. Helplessly, she stroked his hair, murmured soothingly to him, pressing kisses to the top of his head and praying that it might do something to comfort him.

 _Monster,_ she whispered to herself as she held him. _You’re a selfish monster. You don’t deserve this, but you won’t let it go, will you?_

Riza jolted suddenly as Ed pressed his face against her shoulder, small hand clinging to her shirt, and whispered, “W-wouldn’t let me s-see the—the—” He shook his head, sniffling quietly as the fabric of her shirt grew damp. “S-sky.”

Something in her went cold and icy at those six simple, damning words, quieting the flames of wrath roaring inside her. Distantly, she knew that she should probably be worried by the glacier creeping in, the frost steadily turning her thoughts to crystal and her emotions to shards of deep-cutting hoarfrost; somewhere along the way (she couldn’t remember precisely where, whether it was in Berthold Hawkeye’s cold and lonely house or under the burning, dying sun of Ishval), she had learned the difference between her deepest, deadliest rage and that of Roy Mustang. His was, as one might expect, _fiery—_ but not the wild, unfocused fires people originally thought of. It was brutal, ruthless, and he had confessed to her once that there was a terrible _satisfaction_ to it, when that wrath was coming down on someone who genuinely deserved it.

Riza’s…Riza’s fury was _ice._ Was cold, clear, and focused, with mechanical precision and freezing apathy, all with one purpose and one purpose only: to make it _hurt._ To watch her quarry squirm and beg and scream with a face carved from steel and frozen death before finally removing them from a world too good for scum like them. There was no satisfaction to it. There was no feeling at all, except for pure, bone-deep _rage._

It had been a long, long time since she’d last felt it creep in. Long enough that she wondered if she’d ever have need of that ice again.

Now, she almost _relished_ it.

Ed was still trembling in her arms, still speaking, his voice so tiny she barely recognized it as _his_ at all. Every word made the ice creep a little further in, made the burning of her rage turn to silent, prowling blizzards and the slow, steady annihilation brought by shifting glaciers. “They would—would p-put me in t-the—the d-dark a-and w-walk away, a-and m-make voices and m-monsters come—'c-cause I was _b-bad,_ and I—” Ed shook his head wildly and choked on a low, frightened whine, clinging to her. Riza’s hands rubbed gentle circles on his back as she listened, the silence of the death-winter shuddering through her head crystallizing the words and carving them into her memory.

_This is what they did to him. This is what they did to your child. They hurt him, and they broke him._

_And you will kill them all for it._

“I d-didn’t w-want anyone t-then.” Ed sounded horrified by his own thoughts, his own fears, and Riza could do nothing but hold him and pray that the frost seeping into her veins didn’t reach through her skin and chill him to the bone. “I j-just w-wanted— _s-sun,_ a-and stars and l-light—d-didn’t _c-care_ ‘bout anythin’, e-even _Al—_ f-forgot h-him and—” He sobbed against her shoulder, and she felt the ice tighten its grip, willingly allowed it to as he wept, so lost and lonely and _afraid_. “T-took a w-whole y-year—took t-the _s-sky—”_

They, whoever _they_ were, had taken more than a year, more than the sky. They’d taken a child bursting with life and purpose and fury and burned him, isolated him, broken him until he was a shadow of himself, taken his mind and toyed with it and reshaped it like it was clay. They’d killed a brother, a subordinate, a friend— _a son,_ almost (not almost, _never almost,_ after this there was nothing else he could _be_ but hers to protect _)_ —and sank their claws in so deep that, even miles away with the sun and stars within reach, wrapped in warmth and safety and love, their victim couldn’t escape.

Fury wasn’t the only thing turning her to ice, Riza knew then. It was _hatred_.

_They’ll die for what they did to your son._

Riza let the ice consume her, even as she pulled away enough to press her forehead to Ed’s. _“Malo sveta,”_ she whispered. _“Solnyshko. Ílie mou._ Do you know what they mean, Edward?”

Golden eyes blinked at her, full of nothing but confusion and grief and terror. “I—I d-don’—m’sorry, Riza.” He squeezed his eyes shut, and she cupped his face as he sobbed, curling into her again. _“M’sorrym’sorrym’sorrysorrysorry—”_

 _You have nothing to be sorry for._ “Little light,” she whispered, watching as golden eyes flew open in shock. “Tiny sun. _My_ sun.” Gently, carefully, her hands made steady by the cold fury, colder hate, and lightning-sharp _love_ pulsing steadily through her veins, she cradled him, letting his head rest over her heart. “You’ve always been a creature of light, Ed, something that shone bright and beautiful even when there seemed to be nothing but darkness around you. To tear you away from it…I can’t imagine how terrifying it must have been.”

Ed just stared at her, eyes wide and full of _shock—_ before tears slowly began to glide down his cheeks _._ Suddenly, she realized that this was the first time he’d voluntarily _spoken_ to her about what they’d done to him, the pain he’d been put through. Clearly, he hadn’t expected _comfort_ to come from it—hadn’t expected anything but hate, loneliness, isolation again.  

She _did_ relish the ice crackling through her soul, she decided. And for once, she’d enjoy every moment of pain brought to the targets of that devastating winter deep within her. “Why don’t we wake up early tomorrow? Before the sun rises.” She brushed long, overgrown bangs out of his face, peering into the shattered soul beneath. “We can go up to the roof and watch it together, and give you back the sky.”

Ed’s face, pale and wan and tearstained, lit up ever-so-slightly. “P-promise?”

“I promise.” _Anything for you._

His lower lip wobbled—and he hid his face in her shirt again, crying quietly. But these tears...they weren’t of sorrow, or fear, or grief. It was _gratitude,_ pure and overwhelming, and it physically _hurt_ to see.

 _“_ _Wǒ yǒnggǎn de,”_ Riza whispered, the Xingese coming as easily as it had when she’d learned it decades ago, and held him through the tears. Tomorrow, she’d walk into the office with orders for a new mission, one personal for every single person _in_ that office. Tomorrow, the ever-so-slightly illegal military op hunting down the kidnappers of Edward Elric would begin, and she would lead the charge in a storm of steel and frost.

But that would be tomorrow. Today, she would hold her—her _son,_ and wake with the dawn the next day, and try not to cry herself as he stretched his hand out to the open sky around him and laughed, full of hope and warmth and childish delight. Try, and fail when he turned to her, tears in his eyes, and flung his arm around her and whispered _thankyouthankyouthankyou_ as the sun rose over East City.

Today, all she had to do was be here, in this moment, and never let go. And that…that she could certainly do.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, Mama Hawk--Momeye?--to the rescue again! I swear, this couch is just where the characters want to stay for all their chapters...thanks for reading, and I'll see you next Tuesday!
> 
> Wǒ yǒnggǎn de - my brave one. The reason Riza's using so many different languages is because she's a polyglot (by my own hcs, of course--though if she was one canonically I'd kind of love it)!
> 
> Also, Voolffman DREW MY BOY!!! MY SON!!! MY BABY CHILD!!!! THEY'RE AMAZING GO CHECK THEM OUT!!!


	13. so let the sun come streaming in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The whimper that pulled from his throat was almost involuntary, and he found himself instinctively hunching his shoulders ( _smallsafefacehiddenvitalsprotecteddon’thurt)_ as he glanced toward the hallway door. Riza—Riza was standing there, eyes wide with worry and sorrow and all sorts of things he couldn’t name, didn’t _want_ to name anymore (because none of them were good and they were all his fault and he couldn’t go _two seconds_ without upsetting anyone), watching him with a heavy sort of grief settling on her shoulders. Hesitantly, she stepped forward, reaching a hand out to him as Roy appeared over her shoulder, dark eyes bright with concern.
> 
> Concern he didn’t deserve. _Kindness_ he didn’t deserve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song: Found/Tonight by Lin-Manuel Miranda and Ben Platt
> 
> Sorry about posting so late! I've been on the road all day (college tour at Brown University, and then up to my grandmother's place in Plymouth!) and only just got a chance to sit down. Hope you enjoy the chapter!

For someone who had spent several years being essentially homeless, Ed thought he was a little _too_ scared by the thought of going outside the apartment. It was dumb, really, foolish and childish and all sorts of things he couldn’t help but _be_ no matter how hard he tried to act like Before-Ed again, but the idea of stepping out that door was—was _terrifying._ He’d barely managed to pull himself together enough to go up to the roof with Riza, only comforted enough to _breathe_ by the sight of the sky surrounding him, darkness lightening to dawn-pink and sun-stained orange as light filtered over the horizon.

_Going_ out into the city—in the middle of the day—

_I want to._

And maybe that was the worst part of it, because he really _did_ want to go outside, to try and act and look and _be_ better (cry less fight more _learn faster, you little idiot)—_ and maybe stepping out into the sunlight would help. Maybe being _in the world_ instead of pulling apart curtains patterned with ducks ( _stupid stupid stupid little brat, what are you, three?)_ and peering out at a city skyline like some princess trapped in a tower in the stories he could no longer read would make him _better._ Maybe Al wouldn’t worry as much, and he wouldn’t cry so much anymore, and he wouldn’t make anyone else cry over him either. Maybe _outside_ meant safety, meant escape, meant healing.

But the apartment, the tower in _his_ story—it wasn’t a prison, like it had always been in the fairytales Mom had read him over and over and over again. It was sanctuary and safety and _homehomehome_ and for all that Ed wanted to see the world he’d been locked out of (for a _year, They had me for a_ year _, why didn’t I escape sooner before they took everything why can’t I fix myself)_ , the idea of crossing that threshold made him start to cry even more than before, utterly, pathetically terrified.

Because as much as he _missed_ the outside, the world, missed people and _being_ a person, _outside_ was a place _They_ could find him. Outside was _full_ of monsters and demons and things that didn’t need to hide under beds to terrify him into screaming silence. Outside was where They’d taken him in the first place, because he was confident and _stupid_ and _never learned_ and now he was here, staring down at the wooden floor and watching the tears drip down-down-down his face as he whimpered pathetically and tried not to think. Outside—

Outside was _scary_ and _loud_ and full of _people_ and Ed decided that he really didn’t want to go after all.

He clutched Ree to his chest, trying not to cry any louder than he already was as he shuffled his feet awkwardly, the strangely cozy boots Al had somehow p—procu— _found_ for him making soft scuffle-y noises on the wood. Where were Roy and Riza? They were supposed to be here, had promised they’d be with him every step of the way. He wouldn’t blame them if they changed their minds, of course (he wouldn’t exactly want to spend time with himself either, ‘specially after how _awful_ he’d been to them, how much trouble he was), but it was still…it was _scarier_ without them.

_Everything_ was scarier without them or Al. Loud noises and the dark, closed doors and open windows (even with the pretty glow-in-the-dark stars Riza had helped him stick all over the walls, even with the comforting, stupidly _childish_ duck curtains, even when he knew he was safe in the apartment), heat, _pain—_ everything was terrifying. Anything he didn’t know was terrifying, and he didn’t know _anything_ anymore. They had taken it all away.

But when other people were there—when Roy and Riza were there, protecting him _(coddling you, treating you like the worthless little child you are)_ , telling him that he was _okaysafehome—_ it was _easier._ It didn’t hurt as much, and he didn’t feel as frightened, and his mind and heart slowed down enough to actually _notice_ the world around him as something different from the cell. They made it _hurt less,_ and when they were gone—when they were gone, it hurt _more._ Enough that he went nearly _blind_ with panic, his heart beating an unsteady tattoo in his chest as his mind whirled and whirled and whirled in sickening circles.

_Please hurry,_ he begged them, hesitantly raising his eyes to the figure in the hallway mirror. _I don’t wanna go out, but I don’t—_

_I don’t want to be scared right now._

_I don’t want to be_ alone _anymore._

Which was stupid. He _wasn’t_ alone, not really; he had Ree (even if she was just a stuffed animal) and Al (who he loved more than anything in the whole world) and Winry (who said he could always call, about anything, whenever he liked). But right now, huddled in the f—foye—hall with nothing but his reflection and the sounds of quiet whispers from the other room ( _talking about you, complaining about you,_ the voices hissed, and he scrubbed at his eyes with a whimper), he felt a million miles away from the world. From anyone who cared, anyone who’d _listen_ , anyone who’d give a damn—from _people._ Like They were right, and he really _didn’t_ count as a person anymore.

Hesitantly, he raised his eyes to those of his reflection, fingers coming up to toy hesitantly with the soft red scarf that Roy had wrapped around his neck, the fleece smooth and soothing on his trembling fingers. Looked—at hollow, washed-out golden eyes, at scars that crept from beneath the sleeve of the cozy, thick white coat Al had found when Roy had dragged him out on that shopping trip (because Ed had _scared him away),_ at clothes that still hung off a too-frail body and tearstained cheeks and quivering lips.

He didn’t recognize the face there, but at the same time, it made more sense than the flicker of broad smiles and fiery eyes and a voice that filled the room that sometimes flashed through his mind again. Seemed more like _his_ face than the one who’d glimpsed in the occasional picture he found Al staring at, the ones where he’d looked bold and fearless or cheerful and energetic and _happy._ The face in the mirror, weak and frightened as it was, made more sense than the one in his thoughts, in their memories.

He seemed—felt—was— _lost._ Adrift in a terrifyingly vast world, alone and frightened out of his mind, and somehow…less than human. Less human than he’d been when They took him.

He really wasn’t a real person after all. Not anymore.

Ed watched tears streak down the face of the child in the mirror and dropped his gaze, watching them slide off his chin and drip onto the floor. He couldn’t face— _that._ What he’d become, what he’d _let_ Them do to him, the fragile, broken failure they’d made him into. His _own_ failures (to stop them, to escape, to be brave and strong and _fight)_ were too frightening to face all alone.

_Coward._

“Ed?”

The whimper that pulled from his throat was almost involuntary, and he found himself instinctively hunching his shoulders ( _smallsafefacehiddenvitalsprotecteddon’thurt)_ as he glanced toward the hallway door. Riza—Riza was standing there, eyes wide with worry and sorrow and all sorts of things he couldn’t name, didn’t _want_ to name anymore (because none of them were good and they were all his fault and he couldn’t go _two seconds_ without upsetting anyone), watching him with a heavy sort of grief settling on her shoulders. Hesitantly, she stepped forward, reaching a hand out to him as Roy appeared over her shoulder, dark eyes bright with concern.

Concern he didn’t deserve. _Kindness_ he didn’t deserve.

_I’m sorry,_ he wanted to wail. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._ Sorry for taking their time, for taking up too much space, for not being what they remembered, for crying too easily and not understanding words and being so scared and sick all the time. But—but the last time he’d apologized, they’d been _upset._ They’d _cried (you did that, you made them cry)_ and he still couldn’t understand _why._

_Because you’re stupid and unfixable and you can’t even_ think _right, can’t even write your own name or read a kid’s book._ Tears rose higher, faster, and he found himself whimpering pathetically again, wet warmth streaking down his cheeks as they fell against his will. _You’re poison and monstrous and more trouble than you’re worth you should leaveleaveleave forever and ever and ever—_

Warm arms wrapped around him suddenly, and he really _did_ wail now, a wordless cry of icy, crawling _fear_ that he _hatehatehated_ more than anything in the world. Hands were winding through his hair, and someone’s chin was on top of his head, the closeness, the _contact_ soothing and terrifying all at once, the tears coming more and more and more until he was bawling into the shoulder of whoever held him without even knowing _why._

It hurt—everything hurt _so much_ and it had been _weeks_ but he wasn’t any better, was still _broken_ and scared of _everything,_ still a crybaby and an idiot and _weak._ And he couldn’t even _do_ anything about it, couldn’t clap his hands and fix himself (or anything else, for that matter), couldn’t even _research_ a way to make it better. All he could do was sit and _cry_ and beg for things he hadn’t earned, didn’t deserve, completely reliant on _everyone else_ for food shelter _survival—_

_Don’t let go,_ he begged, sobs coming harder and faster as he wailed and wailed ( _small stupid fragile you should diediedie)_ and clung desperately to whoever was kind enough, selfless enough, _dumb_ enough to hold him. _I’m sorry don’t go I’m sorry don’t go I’m sorry—_

_“Malo sveta.”_ Hands combed through his hair again, gentle and soothing, and Ed gasped out another choked sob at the familiar nickname, the soothing touch. _Little light little light little light—_ so it was Riza holding him, then, straight-backed and strong and unbreakable. He felt another wailing cry pull from his throat, twinging painfully as he shook in her grasp, and buried his face in her shirt with a whimper. “Sir, if you would—”

“Of course.”

Another pair of arms wrapped around him, and Ed nearly shrieked in terror, tears rising and falling, coursing down his face. _Nonononono don’t take me don’t take me pleasepleaseplease wanna stay home stay with you and Al don’t let Them take me again!_ He struggled (pathetically, _weakly,_ flailing and whimpering and pleading with everything and nothing to _let him go let him go let him go)_ , gasping and clinging desperately to Riza. _Pleasepleasepleaseplease—_

“Fullmetal,” the second voice whispered, warm and steady, “Ed, it’s just _me,_ buddy, it’s Roy—Colonel Bastard, remember?” One of the arms swept under his legs, lifted him until he was held tight and safe against the man’s chest. Right— _Colonel Bastard, Roy,_ guardian and ally and protector _,_ always _there_ even when he was being stupid and childish and _bad._

_Won’t hurt you. Gonna keep you safe. Protects you._

Hesitantly, Ed managed to open his eyes, the salt of tears drip-drip-dripping down his face and touching his tongue, before peeking up from beneath the safety of his bangs. Roy was _smiling,_ though it seemed to _ache_ a little bit, far from the smug smirk that Ed hadn’t seen in…in…when had he last seen it? A year— _a year, they took you for a year—_ ago, before—

_Dust and darkness shadows and hands cages cells hurtshurtshurts_ burns _won’t be bad anymore I swear I won’t I’ll be goodgoodgood I promise—_

“Oh, kiddo.” Roy’s voice was sad; Ed heard it as though from a great distance away, like he was underwater and drowning, lungs burning and senses fading and _lost._ “I’m so, so sorry this happened, Ed. I just—” He blew out a strangely exhausted sigh, guilt swirling in Ed’s chest at the sound of it. “I wish I could fix it for you, you know?”

_Not your fault, not your fault, mineminemine._ He felt too achingly exhausted to speak, whimpering quietly and letting his body go limp in the protective grip. _My fault mine to fix I’m sorrysorrysorry._

He shouldn’t be dumping this all on them. He shouldn’t _be here,_ hurting them, making them worry and feel so _upset._ But he’s—he was _selfish,_ and small, and the idea of leaving and heading out somewhere where he’d never ever see them again was _terrifying._

Hurting them made him hurt _more,_ but—but the idea of leaving them made him want to collapse into the burned-and-torn-up glass shards, lost without any of the threads of gold tying those pieces together.

Without them—without them he would _shatter,_ and he was too selfish to let himself break completely.

“ _Ílie mou.”_ Ed raised his head at the sound of Riza’s voice, a quiet whimper escaping before he could stop it. Amber eyes met his, filled with worry and fondness and something—something more, something _deeper_ and terrifying, too scary to risk putting a name to in case he ruined it all again. Gently, she reached up and took his hand, squeezing it lightly—a little, tiny, pulse of warmth that felt something like hope and that frightening, deeper thing he didn’t want to touch. She wasn’t afraid of the scar on his hand, of what it meant, the punishment he’d earned. Of _any_ of the scars.

It felt like—like she wasn’t going to _leave._

Like neither of them were.

_“Ílie mou,”_ she repeated softly, “Can you tell us—what upset you? Was it going outside? We don’t have to if you’re not ready.”

Oh.

They were—he was getting an _out_? He was allowed to—to—but—

Only good, _real_ people got—got _that._ Got to say no and change their minds and go back on plans, and Ed—Ed wasn’t good _or_ real, was nothing more than a ghost of what Before-Ed had been, diso— _bad_ and stupid and fragile and _dumb._ He didn’t _deserve_ that.

And more than that, he had to—to _try,_ right? To be a _little_ bit better than he was? To not do—everything he did all the time, cry and panic and hurt the people he cared about.

It already hurt too much. He just—just wanted it to _stop._ To be _better._

“N-nuh.” He shook his head, feeling heat rush to his cheeks in embarrassment at the childish phrasing. _You’re such a baby, stupid little brat, worthless._ “Wanna—wanna _g-go,_ s’just—” Golden eyes flashed at him in the mirror as he peered over Riza’s shoulder at the silvery flash of glass. Shame rushed through him and he hid his face again, whimpering. Maybe he shouldn’t go out, or try to speak, or do _anything._ He could stay right here, couldn’t he? It was warm in the hug, and he felt—felt _safe,_ and They couldn’t get him here and he didn’t want to go, he _didn’t—_

 “It’s scary,” Roy offered, his voice shockingly gentle (he wasn’t angry, wasn’t _upset,_ Ed could’ve sobbed with relief), “because that’s where you got hurt before, right?”

Ed’s eyes widened at the words—at the _understanding—_ as Riza made a soft noise of com—compre— _recognition._

They…they knew.

How did they— _why_ did they—

They knew how weak he was, how scared he was, how _stupid_ he was, and they were still…staying?

“We won’t be out for very long,” Riza said, and it didn’t sound like she was trying to persuade him, convince him—just give him the _facts,_ the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So that—so that he wouldn’t be _afraid._ “And we’ll be with you every step of the way, _solnyshko,_ I promise. You won’t be alone, and if anyone tries to take you—”

“They’ll die,” Roy said, quite pleasantly. “Slowly. And screaming. And—”

_“Sir.”_

“And we’re going out for ice cream,” he added quickly, and Ed couldn’t help giggling as Riza hit his shoulder lightly. “Ow! Lieutenant—”

“That was supposed to be a _surprise,_ sir.”

“Oh.” Roy blinked mournfully at her, and Ed had to free his hand of Riza’s to cover his mouth so he wouldn’t laugh too loud. “…You’re giving me extra paperwork next time you visit, aren’t you.”

“Would I do that, sir?”

_“Yes.”_

“Well, there you are.”

“Oh, come _on…”_

Ed shook his head, still giggling quietly, before meeting Riza’s eyes and managing—managing to _nod._

He would be safe. They wouldn’t get him, because Riza and Roy were there and they weren’t ever gonna leave, because of that deep, terrifying, _warm_ emotion in their eyes. And besides, it was for—for _ice cream,_ and he really did miss ice cream, and besides, Ree would be in his bag the whole time and Riza would hold his hand and Roy would carry him when he got tired and he would—Ed would—

Ed would maybe be _okay._

Not the same, never the same, and definitely not today or tomorrow or even next week, but _eventually_ …

Eventually he’d be okay.

Quietly, he twined his fingers with Riza’s again, squirming until Roy set him on the ground and managing not to stumble as he shifted his weight, pressing close to the safety they provided as his gaze fixed on the door ahead. On the gateway that was friend and enemy, held terror and wonder and the _unknown_ —an ordinary door, and yet it managed to scare him to death when he thought of it, of _leaving._ A shiver of fear ran through him as he managed to take a step—another, another, _another—_

A hand squeezed his, an arm draped itself around his shoulders, and he managed to exhale. To _breathe._

_Keep moving forward._

And he walked into the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ed's technically already been outside for his visits with Knox, but I figured being bundled into a car and actually walking around outside are two very different things. So...here we are!
> 
> Also, Royai banter (just a bit!)! Them being parents to bby Ed! Bby Ed being nervous but trying his very very best! Yay! Leave a kudos and/or a comment if you enjoyed it, and I'll see you next Tuesday~


	14. felt your heartbeat and thought: i am free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he got back from errands, if they were to be done, Ed would have likely moved from that small leather couch he so favored to a seat at the kitchen counter. And this—this sight was the most heartbreaking of them all, that small figure hunched over a piece of paper, scarred, shaking fingers wrapped around a pencil as Ree-the-Dragon watched on, black eyes and red thread utterly free of judgement.
> 
> He wasn’t sketching, or doodling, or even just making little scribbles. Wasn’t writing equations that could save the world, either, or revolutionizing transmutation circles.
> 
> Ed was practicing the alphabet, over and over and over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you asked, and I caved: plenty of parental Roy in this chapter, folks! Then it's more Riza, some Al (yay!), more Roy, Riza and Al (surprisingly, there's very little Ed in that chapter, but I figured Alphonse is suffering a lot too)
> 
> [My Love, My Life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xk254EyXLYA) from Mamma Mia, sung by Meryl Streep (Donna Sheridan) and Amanda Seyfried (Sophie Sheridan)

Slowly, steadily, days trickled by—some of fear (a _lot_ of fear), but some of hope, too (and wasn’t _that_ a goddamn shocker). Even more surprising was the steady, strange _routine_ they began to build up, the four of them, Roy and Riza and Al and Ed. Things shifted, changed—often, because the more that he found out about what _exactly_ they’d done to Ed, the more he wanted to dive headfirst into the not-entirely-military-sanctioned hunt Riza had begun and continued to lead. But as the days went on and became another week, a week and a half, two weeks, the changes were less and less drastic and the loose routine more and more comforting. Not just to Ed (though the kid had definitely seemed soothed by it, by knowing that he’d see them all when he opened his eyes and that they would be there when he drifted off), but to Al—and yes, to Roy himself as well.

The morning mostly followed the same pattern. Roy had gotten into the habit of waking before Ed so he could check on him and Al (who kept a quiet, protective vigil over his big brother every time he slept, as if terrified that leaving meant Ed would be whisked away into whatever dark, cold place he’d been trapped in for that hellish year) before starting on something simple for breakfast. Make sure there was an extra portion there for Riza if she had time to come by in the morning, pour a cup of coffee…and then wait.

Honestly, he was probably eating more healthily now than he had in years, no longer relying on takeout and off-nights spent in bars. It was all for Ed’s sake, but he couldn’t deny that it made him feel a bit better. _And all it took was my so—_ subordinate _being kidnapped for a year and traumatized beyond measure! Totally, utterly, completely_ not worth it.

The early mornings were always peaceful, always quiet. Things got a little bit trickier after Ed woke up, though—not much, because Ed would always try his hardest to be quiet and do as Roy asked (and that was almost more upsetting, because the Ed he remembered would have been a contrary little bastard about everything, but this one was docile and shy and so desperate for any kind of affection that it broke his heart), but how the kid woke could set the tone for the day, and it could just as easily go one way as the other.

Sometimes, he’d wake up quietly, peacefully, the sheets dry (his face still stained with tears from the nightmares that _still_ chased him, but Roy wasn’t sure how to ask and Al, if he knew, never told) and arm outstretched and eyes pleading for a hug (which he’d always get; Roy wasn’t entirely sure how he’d come to be so utterly _whipped_ for this child. All he knew was that Ed could’ve asked him to bring the stars down to earth and he would’ve found a way). Those days…those were _good_ days, peaceful days, with fewer tears and more of those shy, halting smiles and even _laughter,_ if it was particularly good.

Other days, though—other days, he’d wake screaming and sobbing and lost to fear, so terrified of everything and everyone that he couldn’t recognize them. It had become easier to calm him down—make sure he had the stuffed animal, that Al was near, that there was light (preferably natural, but anything would work), that Roy or Riza was within reach, and the panic would only last a minute or two before the screams stopped. But when the screams stopped, he’d register everything else: the soaked sheets, the torn bandages, his perceived weakness. And when he registered that, he would start to cry, quiet, awful sobs and stammered apologies that broke Roy’s heart to hear.

Those days, quite obviously, were not as good.

There were always, of course, in-between days, ones that didn’t fit one extreme or the other, ones in which the number of smiles and tears were nearly equal. Today seemed to be shaping up to be one of those days, Ed waking in tears and unwilling to speak, but clinging to Al’s hand and even going so far as to beam at Roy when he found out that he’d mixed chocolate syrup into the yogurt (intentionally, of course; even he wasn’t that much of an idiot in the kitchen) and that strawberries were on the menu as well. Which, hopefully, boded a little better for the afternoon.

Afternoons in the apartment were generally (if they were lucky, if the morning hadn’t gone badly, if Ed didn’t find himself frightened or startled or sickened by something new and Roy and Al found themselves desperately scrambling to protect and comfort him) monotonous, following the same steady schedule. Boring, sometimes, especially compared to how things _used_ to be, but he welcomed it. It was more peace than he’d had in the last twelve months—hell, last twelve _years_.

There would be a few moments of quiet—Ed napping on the couch, curled up so small and fragile that he seemed a thousand times younger than he really was; Al reading and jotting down notes beside him, determined to stay focused on their goal now more than ever, but never so far away that Ed couldn’t see him if he woke. And Roy…well, he’d call Hawkeye, ask about the search, their leads, _when the hell can I torch the bastards who did this._ He’d listen intently, jot down the most vital points of whatever the team had dug up, hang up just in time for Ed to jerk awake and immediately cling to Al’s arm.

He’d keep biding his time on the vengeance front, and then turn his focus to the variable he could immediately affect: the kid.

Afternoons were usually when he ran errands nowadays (no one, no one at _all_ wanted a repeat of that disastrous day, of the panic and grief and _betrayal_ that had shone in those golden eyes when he’d woken up screaming, afraid, _alone)_ , and only if someone else was around to make sure Ed wasn’t left on his own. Usually, that duty fell to Al, whose trips to the library had become a little more frequent as Ed regained some small level of stability, some tiny lessening of that all-consuming _fear_ that seemed to burn through him constantly, feeding off of whatever it could find. If Al wasn’t available, though, then it was Riza, or (rarest of all; the man had a young daughter and it wasn’t fair of Roy to pull him away from her when he was already gone so much) Hughes. Ed seemed to like those occasions least of all, and Roy couldn’t figure out if it was something against Hughes (probably not, given that he’d actually managed to _calm him down_ when they’d been driving back from that phone booth) or that Ed only had enough trust right now for three people—four including Winry—and he’d already given it all away.

Probably the latter. Roy could only hope some of that strange faith in people he’d once had, so out of place in a dog of the military, would return someday.

When he got back from errands, if they were to be done, Ed would have likely moved from that small leather couch he so favored to a seat at the kitchen counter. And this—this sight was the most heartbreaking of them all, that small figure hunched over a piece of paper, scarred, shaking fingers wrapped around a pencil as Ree-the-Dragon watched on, black eyes and red thread utterly free of judgement.

He wasn’t sketching, or doodling, or even just making little scribbles. Wasn’t writing equations that could save the world, either, or revolutionizing transmutation circles.

Ed was practicing the alphabet, over and over and over.

The first time Roy had seen it, something had hollowed out in his chest, something that felt a little like hope. Al had been standing beside him, quietly helping him with the sound for each and praising him when he got them right; Ed’s face had been flushed with what Roy knew very well by now was _shame,_ a shame that only grew stronger with every error, every tiny mishap. At one point, tears had begun dripping onto the paper, and Al had made a horrified noise and reached out to hug him, smoothing his hair back and insisting to him that it was alright, it was fine, he didn’t have to get it all or even most of it right away. That even if he never got any of it back, they were all so proud of him for trying and would still love him so, so much. Roy could only watch, silently willing him to believe him, to believe that the people he loved would never stop caring for him, never walk away. Could only let each tear dissolve another part of his heart and hope as he watched him struggle.

Ed had just kept writing those damn letters, over and over and over, until the lead in the pencil broke off—

And then he’d burst into tears.

Something in Roy had twisted at that, sharp and _painful._ Before he’d even consciously known what was happening, Ed was in his arms and sobbing, that scarred hand so small and fragile against Al’s gauntlets. It had _hurt—_ physically _hurt_ to see Ed in so much pain, so frustrated with himself and struggling with the simplest of tasks, and the pain only got stronger by the day.

He wondered absently, distantly, if this was what fatherhood was like.

It was terrifying.

He still stood by that now, six days later, another grocery run completed and Ed practically falling asleep at his table, slumped over the assortment of papers covered in jagged, unsteady letters, more than half of them illegible. Al wasn’t in the kitchen (presumably, he was investigating the books in Mustang’s study while Ed practiced quietly), but Ed must have either been so engrossed in the task before him (unlikely) or so drowsy ( _very_ likely) that he didn’t care. The pencil rolled from his hand as he yawned, eyes squeezed shut, before he rested his cheek on the table with a quiet hum—small, harmless, oh-so frighteningly vulnerable.

Terrifying, how delicate the small creature before him was. Terrifying, how much Ed relied on him. Terrifying, how much Roy would _do_ for him.

_Anything. Anything and everything, if it makes you feel safe enough to smile, happy enough to laugh, brave enough to stand. Anything in the world._

Yeah. Terrifying.

But he’d give Ed all of that everything, all of that anything if it would help—and as frightening as that was, Roy didn’t quite _care._

“Ed,” he called, making his way over to the stool currently occupied by his youngest ex-subordinate (not counting Alphonse, who hadn’t _officially_ been one but had somehow been the heart and soul of their offices all the same). “Ed, buddy, you’re going to fall right off of that if you take a nap there.” _Which would absolutely_ not _be good for anyone, especially you._ Images flashed in his mind— _stitches reopened, fragile bones cracked, tears and bruises and crises un-averted—_ and he did his best to hide his grimace as Ed whined wordlessly, one aureate eye cracking open and peering at him almost _suspiciously._ Roy bit back a chuckle, of all things, and shrugged. “It’s happened to me, kid. Not only do you get a terrible crick in your neck and back, but you end up with bruises and shame on top of it. Not my idea of a fun time.”

Ed squinted at him, before his hand crept out and grabbed Ree off the table, sweeping the stuffed dragon into his arm. Roy didn’t bother trying to hide his smile as Ed tilted his head to the side, sleep-glazed golden eyes vaguely thoughtful; this was just a _little_ bit more like the Ed he remembered, with no time or patience for “the bastard’s shenanigans”. Maybe—maybe it was a good sign. Maybe he was healing, regaining confidence…or just too tired to be scared.

“S-sleepy,” Ed complained, small, soft voice barely above a whisper as the skepticism in his eyes turned pleading, that goddamn _look_ that made Roy want to sweep him into a hug and bundle him in blankets and take him somewhere he’d never be hurt again. “W-wanna g-go—go t’b-bed. P-please?” he added, blinking up at him—as though he still wasn’t sure he _deserved_ to want things, even something as simple as a nap. As though Roy would say _no, get back to work, you idiot,_ and leave him there, exhausted and fragile and _hurt—_

Roy pushed down the latest echo of _I’m going to kill those bastards,_ of rage and grief and agony, and smiled ruefully. “Then let’s get you to your room, okay, buddy?”  

Ed’s eyes shone, practically _glowing_ with gratitude; he squeaked as Roy lifted him (too light, he was still _too light,_ he’d managed to put on a little bit of weight since they’d found him but it _wasn’t enough_ and Roy couldn’t help worrying about it) before nestling drowsily into the embrace. One—he hated to call it _good,_ but it wasn’t bad or even particularly mediocre, either—thing about Ed now that occasionally came in handy: as soon as he’d trusted them, he’d become a complete sucker for physical contact, practically launching himself at him and Riza for hugs whenever he had even the _slightest_ bit of energy, even managing to properly climb onto and cling to Al’s back after one particularly bad nightmare. That hunger for touch, for _comfort_ was a mark, Roy knew, of just how much he trusted them (especially after seeing the burn scars, the whip marks, the remnants of dozens, hundreds of tortures steadily enacted upon him).

He hated to admit it, but he almost… _relished_ it. After a year of failing him, years before that spent not being _properly_ there for him, it felt like he was _doing something,_ providing some kind of comfort for the kid he’d let down so many times before. Same thing with the nicknames, he supposed—both the generic ones he used and the multilingual variety Riza whispered. They made Ed feel safe, gave him _comfort,_ and after so long spent wishing they could do just that for the kid stolen from their lives, it felt…

Like atonement, almost. Or like it comforted both of them as well as Ed.

Either way, the effect it had on Ed was a distinctly good one, so Roy certainly wasn’t about to stop.

Stepping into Ed’s room—he’d long since given up calling it the “guest room”, with its duck-patterned curtains and glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceilings and soft, wine-red bedspread—he set him on the edge of the bed, pulling today’s bright-purple, glittery hair-tie from that veritable _mane_ of golden hair as Ed yawned. He shifted back beneath the covers as Roy set the hair-tie on the nightstand, burrowing beneath them until only those hollow, achingly melancholy eyes peeked out over the blankets.

Roy couldn’t help chuckling—at the sight, at how disgustingly domestic he’d become, how absolutely _adorable_ Ed looked like that—as he turned toward the door. “Sweet dreams, Fullme—”

_“W-wait!”_

He froze, a thousand worries ( _did I scare him is he hurt what happened what did I do is he okay)_ flashing through his mind as Ed sat up, eyes wide, scarred hand crushing Ree-the-Dragon to his chest. There were tears forming in those eyes (thousands of worries became millions, trillions, all moving at the speed of light) and pale, scarred lips opened and closed wordlessly before he whispered, voice heartbreakingly tiny, “C-can y-you read t-to me?”

Roy stopped. Stared.

_What?_

“Y-you don’t—h-have to, I—I, um, I j-just—” Ed was shaking his head now, whimpering with frustration and _fear_ as he struggled with the words. Roy’s heart twisted, _broke_ even as he stood there trying and failing to make sense of the sentence he’d said before that— _read to me, read to me, read to me._ Tears began to slip down pale, hollow cheeks, Ed pulling his knees to his chest with a quiet whine and hiding his face. “M’sorry m’sorry _m’sorrysorrysorry_ —”

“Of course I can, Ed.”

For a moment, the words surprised even _him._ Reading to someone—that was something parents did to their children, right? Something families did, people with implicit trust and a frightening sort of unconditional, infinite care did to each other. The fact that _Edward Elric_ was asking it of _him—_ Colonel Bastard, Flame, Hero of Ishval, war criminal and murderer and _dripping_ blood that he felt sick at the thought of staining the frail, hurting figure before him with—was impossible. That anyone would show that kind of vulnerability to him (besides Riza, who knew, who’d been there beside him for every moment, who’d let him burn her back and sworn to guard his) …

He didn’t deserve it.

He didn’t deserve _Ed._

But the fact that Ed was willing to show him that trust, to say that he believed that Roy would never betray him, hurt him, leave him behind again…to say no would be to spit on that, wouldn’t it? To say he didn’t care for him in that overwhelming, petrifying, infinitely tender way?

_And that would be a lie._

Ed peeked over his knees slowly, utter disbelief plain and clear across those delicate features, tearstained cheeks and eyes hollowed by black shadows beneath them suddenly a little bit brighter, more hopeful. Once again, it struck Roy—the burden and blessing of having the ability to make someone look like that, like they’d found a candle after spending eons in darkness, how beautiful and horrible it was all at once. “S-something w-with a,” he started, looking up at him like he was afraid Roy might laugh at him for it, “a—a h-happy ending?”

_Oh._

Roy swallowed thickly against the suddenly lump in his throat, settling himself on the edge of the bed, close enough that Ed could reach out and touch him if he needed the reminder— _this is real, I’m here for you, we all are, I will never abandon you again I_ swear _it._ “Yeah, kiddo. We can do that.” _Stories with a happy ending, stories with a happy ending…ah._ His mouth quirked up slightly as the story came to him; Chris Mustang had only read to him a handful of times, but she’d gotten him as many books as he’d ever dared ask for, and this one…well, this one had become so well-loved that his first copy was still kept in a locked shelf in the study. For him, it had been _the story,_ the best, the greatest, full of heroes and villains and joy and failure and dashing rogues and princesses.

And, most importantly, they all lived happily ever after.

“A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reading! Fatherhood! Mustang no longer denying that he's essentially adopted Ed! Ed being cute! We've got it all!!!
> 
> 4400+ hits--WHAT THE HECK. Y'all are amazing and I love you to bits. Thank you so much for reading; leave a comment and/or a kudos if you liked it, and, as always, I'll see you next Tuesday!


	15. pick a star on the dark horizon and follow the light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She could _hear_ the poor kid whimpering, quietly enough that only those mere inches from him would be able to hear it; it was a heartbreaking sound, pathetic and frightened, his already small, damaged voice cracking as he trembled behind her. Al’s hand was wrapped gently around his, solid and comforting, but it didn’t seem enough to ground Ed today, she realized with an awful, sickening sort of horror. No, he seemed seconds from bolting or bursting into tears or throwing up in front of everyone, and while she wouldn’t have begrudged him for it in the slightest, the added humiliation wouldn’t help him at all. Add in the possibility of well-meaning strangers frightening him even more and less-than-well-meaning ones mocking him—
> 
> No, she couldn’t let that happen. _Wouldn’t._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Call](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pCEUpVukAe8) by Regina Spektor 
> 
> More Riza! And here we begin a tiny little mini-arc in this story, which I'm calling the "Risembool" Arc; it'll end at about Chapter Twenty.

It was eight days after they’d finally managed to coax Ed into going outside—actually _walking_ outside, not being bundled into a car when he was half-asleep and couldn’t quite process the fact that they were leaving the apartment—that the call came in from Risembool: Winry had nearly completed Ed’s new arm, and they’d have to make the trip to Risembool to ensure it was properly attached. When Riza had asked, Pinako Rockbell had quite brusquely told her that yes, house calls were possible, but given Ed’s particularly delicate… _situation,_ she and Winry felt it might be best if he came to them, where they could have all hands on deck and everything within reach if there were any _complications._

Ed…Ed hadn’t said much on the matter since finding out they’d have to go, beyond a look of abject _terror_ that broke Riza’s heart, and a tremulous, utterly unconvincing “O-okay”.  He’d obediently tried to pick out things that he wanted to pack: soft clothes in a range of bright colors and a few paler ones as well, the book that Mustang had been reading to him and another one that Riza occasionally read a chapter or two of ( _The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_ was a bit of a nonsensical story at times, but she’d loved it as a child and Ed always listened raptly whenever she had time to read it to him), and, of course, Ree-the-Dragon. He’d nearly cried when Al quietly presented one of the old suitcases the two of them had carted around from East City to Central to South and everywhere in between, had even been quietly, utterly focused on packing everything neatly into said bag, so much so that Riza wondered if he actually _was_ a little less frightened this time around.

She’d been wrong. Completely, totally, devastatingly _wrong,_ because here they were at the train station (she was going under the guise of a mission, of course, given that it would look suspicious if she and her conspicuously-absent commanding officer both took a brief “vacation”—ha, as _if—_ to the same place for the same weekend), and Ed was painfully, absolutely _terrified._  

Riza suspected that at least half of it was the noise. She hadn’t taken a train herself in a while, but she recalled the way words tended to echo, the deafening clatter of wheels on the tracks, the howl of the horn as the trains drew near. Not only that, but despite their best efforts to go at a time when it would be less crowded, the station was _packed._ Dozens of people heading out to the countryside for the holidays, she supposed, or visiting family. Which, technically, was what _they_ were doing today, except for the fact that it involved a very, _very_ traumatized fifteen-year-old who seemed moments from passing out, and a medical procedure painful enough to make grown men beg for mercy.

Even the line for tickets was packed, people standing as close to each other as they possibly could to beat off the wind chill and shave a few seconds off their time stuck in the aforementioned line. Al had volunteered to stand behind Ed to make sure no one got too close from that angle, at least, but people still pressed in on all sides. She could _hear_ the poor kid whimpering, quietly enough that only those mere inches from him would be able to hear it; it was a heartbreaking sound, pathetic and frightened, his already small, damaged voice cracking as he trembled behind her. Al’s hand was wrapped gently around his, solid and comforting, but it didn’t seem enough to ground Ed today, she realized with an awful, sickening sort of horror. No, he seemed seconds from bolting or bursting into tears or throwing up in front of everyone, and while she wouldn’t have begrudged him for it in the slightest, the added humiliation wouldn’t help him at all. Add in the possibility of well-meaning strangers frightening him even more and less-than-well-meaning ones mocking him—

No, she couldn’t let that happen. _Wouldn’t._

Quietly, Riza tapped Roy on the shoulder, dark eyes meeting her own as he broke off his conversation with the man in front of them; he’d always been good at that, she thought absently, talking to people and charming them, _conning_ them. The number of times they’d sweet-talked their way into free desserts from the village bakery when he’d been her father’s apprentice…well, it wasn’t surprising that particular talent had grown along with everything else. There’d been a playful spark back then, though, something light and naïve and sugar-sweet that had died in Ishval, replaced with burning resolve and deadly purpose.

A hint of that playfulness, though—that genuine _joy—_ had started to creep through the smug façade again, she’d noticed. Not much—but he’d tap the tip of Ed’s nose gently and grin when he squeaked, joke with Al while he actually managed to _cook_ something for once. Despite the exhaustion, despite the constant worrying for the child they’d both come to think of as their own, at least on some level, Roy seemed almost…a little happier, a little less isolated.

Riza tried not to think of the warmth in her chest at the thought, and instead nodded toward Ed. Roy followed her gaze, eyes widening at the sight of huge, _terrified_ golden eyes filling steadily with tears and trembling shoulders distinctly noticeable even from this far away. Understanding flashed across his face even as she said, “Please get the tickets for the rest of us, sir. I’m going to try and get Ed out of crowd.” _Before something_ worse _happens to him._

Roy’s gaze flicked to her before drifting back to Ed, the boy’s face buried in the soft red scarf he’d bought for him. “Wise as ever, Lieutenant,” he agreed, dipping his head in a nod. “Try and find somewhere quiet if you can. The noise has to be making it much worse than it would be if it were just the crowd.”

So they _were_ on the same page, then. Truthfully, she hadn’t expected anything less, but it _was_ rather comforting to have the affirmation. “Of course, sir.”

Ed flinched back when she set a hand on his shoulder, a whine escaping as his gaze snapped up to her, tears of what seemed like (what she _hoped_ was just) pure fright slipping down hollow cheeks as Al moved to stand beside him with a handful of whispered apologies to the people around them. Riza’s heart sank even as she pasted a gentle smile across her face, cupping his cheek gently and sweeping her thumb over his cheekbones. “It’s okay,” she whispered. _He’s not ready for this. He’s definitely not ready for this; there has to be_ something _we can do to make it easier…_ “Do you want to step out of the crowd for a bit, _ílie mou?”_

He pressed his cheek into her hand and nodded, quiet, wordless whimpers breaking from his throat as he shuffled closer to her. Riza hummed softly, soothingly as she guided him along, weaving through the crowd with whispered apologies, responding to concerned looks with half-hearted, distracted smiles and meeting glares with a deadly one of her own. Al followed, a shield against all of it as Ed stumbled along behind her, every step hesitant and faltering. Together, they shepherded him to a relatively quiet nook between a mostly-unoccupied bench and a broken ticket booth, the two of them moving to create a sort of distance between him and the terrifying world that he was trying so hard to be a part of again.

Agoraphobia. Riza had heard about it, read about it before—fear of open spaces, the outdoors, the world in general. Sometimes it was slight enough that the person only got nervous in such situations, but other times it was debilitating enough that they couldn’t leave their houses, their rooms... Ed hadn’t reached that point, thankfully; he’d cheered up immensely after being coaxed out for a walk a few days ago, despite being startled halfway to the ice cream parlor by a very excitable puppy (the owner had been mortified and apologized over and over while Ed hid behind Roy and Riza reassured him that it was fine). But the noise, the _crowds…_

At first, she’d thought he’d be more afraid of small spaces, of being locked up. After a year of confinement, of isolation, of a place he only ever referred to as “the cell” when he begged his captors in his nightmares (that was perhaps the worst part of sitting vigil over him while he slept; she wondered how Al hadn’t snapped and gone searching for them on his own yet), wouldn’t he crave that openness more than anything? And yet it made a terrible kind of sense—he’d been stuck in that tiny cell for so long, in the dark and the cold, that the walls around him had come to be comforts as much as terrors, reminders that he still _existed._ So perhaps it was the noise, but perhaps…perhaps he also felt like he was fading, becoming a ghost. A little less real with every passing moment.

  _And if that’s the case, then we just have to remind him that he’s real, and here, and loved._

Ed’s gaze was fixed on his feet, hand finally pulled free of Alphonse’s as he worried at his lip, fingers perilously close to slipping into his mouth again. The hood of the soft white coat was pulled up over his head, the red scarf Roy had bought him wound around his neck, but she could still see the tears rolling steadily down his face. Riza’s heart twisted in her chest again, and she reached out, twining his fingers with hers and smiling softly as his head jerked up, lower lip wobbling. “Need a hug, Ed?” she offered gently.

Ed sniffled, hiding his face in the fleecy red scarf before bobbing his head, holding his arm out to her with a whimper. Riza swept her arms around him immediately, pulling him close and smoothing her fingers gently over his head, accidentally knocking the hood back. The wind immediately started tugging at loose strands of blond hair, sticking in all directions from the static of the hood; she ran her fingers through it, trying to pat it back down into some semblance of neatness, but she soon gave up and Ed didn’t seem to care. His face was hidden in her shoulder, arm wrapped around her neck as he cried quietly.

“Is it too loud, Brother?” Al asked gently, a leather gauntlet hovering over Ed’s empty sleeve before giving his shoulder a comforting squeeze. Riza felt Ed shift against her, one bright, melancholy golden eye peeking out at his brother as he turned his head. She rested her chin atop his head as he trembled, whimpering. “Or is it the train?” He chuckled softly, and Riza arched an eyebrow at him, more curious than anything else. She got her answer as to why a few moments later when he continued, “Actually, I was pretty scared of trains the first time we saw one, remember? You, though, wanted to sit on top of it.”

“D-did not,” Ed whispered into Riza’s coat, and she saw grief and hope and sorrow all flicker in those glowing soulfire eyes. She met Al’s gaze—he’d been holding up surprisingly well during all of this, making sure to be there for Ed however he possibly could, doing whatever it took to comfort his brother…and probably neglecting himself in the process. _Of course he has,_ she thought, only half sarcastically. _He’s an Elric, and he thinks he’s invincible, and blames himself for what happened. It practically comes with the goddamned name._  

She’d have to talk to him later, provide some kind of comfort for him, just ask him how he was doing. He hadn’t let himself break down at _all_ since the morning after they’d rescued Ed, just those few bursts of the terror of thinking he’d lose him again and grief at the way Ed still thought he was at fault, and then nothing but that strong, comforting façade. Not now—Ed needed both of them right now, needed to be calm enough to _breathe_ and worry a little less about his little brother than usual—but later. Tonight, if she could.

But right now, she admitted to herself reluctantly, at least for these few minutes before their train arrived, Ed had to be the immediate priority.

“D-don’t wanna—n-no train,” came the tiny, rasping whine after a minute, accompanied by a quiet cough. Riza’s heart broke at the sound of it and she murmured soothingly as Ed whimpered and hid his face in her shoulder again. “S-scary— _l-loud—_ an’—an’ e-everyone’s g-gonna _s-see_ me.” He shook his head wildly against her shoulder. “A-already s-saw—cryin’ like a—a s-stupid _b-baby—”_ There was another whimper, but he didn’t lift his head, and the tears didn’t stop falling. “W-wanna go h-home, R-Riza, p-please.”

She forced herself to stay strong, her back straight, shoulders squared, _be fearless, fearless, fearless._ Inwardly, though, she was reeling at that, at the reason she’d never really considered: Ed was _embarrassed,_ scared to be seen by other people (she’d overheard him calling them “real” when he had one of those quiet, whispered conversations with Ree, as though he _wasn’t_ real or good, as though he was a tiny scrap of spirit wandering among them). It felt like it should have been obvious; not only was the outside world in general frightening to him, but the people _in_ it were—especially if they saw him in the throes of a panic, a nightmare, saw him trying to read and failing, startling at loud noises and crying at the slightest fright. Normal people—people who _hadn’t_ gone through that kind of hell—wouldn’t understand, would either patronize or try to comfort him or mock him for it. And Ed was terrified of all three, but the latter most of all.

 _Oh, solnyshko…_ “You _are_ going home, Ed,” she managed to say, and winced—well, that certainly didn’t address the issue at _all._ “Remember? We’re going to see Winry.”

Ed hiccupped, before shaking his head with a quiet sniffle. “S-stars—and ducks—an’ c-couch an’ p-pink f-funny straws. A-apart—apar—”

_The apartment._

Shocked despite herself, Riza barely managed to keep her hands still as she rubbed soothing circles on Ed’s back, hesitantly raising her eyes to Alphonse’s. There was no blame, no jealousy in his gaze as he looked at Ed; she almost wished there was, because _that_ she could deal with, that she could handle. But there was just…this deep, profound _sadness._ As though while this new Ed broke her and Roy’s hearts, he tore Al’s soul to shreds with every breath, every reminder that he hadn’t protected him, had _let_ this happen. _I definitely have to check on him._

“I’m sorry, baby,” she rasped, and she didn’t know whether she was saying it to Al or Ed, didn’t realize the term of endearment she’d tacked onto the end for a moment, somehow more profound and binding than all the ones she’d used before. “We have to go to Risembool so we can get you your new arm, okay? We’ll come home as soon as Dr. Rockbell clears us to, I promise, and none of us are going anywhere without you,” she added for Ed’s sake.

“Who are we not going anywhere without?”

Riza felt the tension—not all of it, but a fair portion—rush out of her at the warm, familiar voice, even as Al squeaked, “Colonel!” Ed let out a low, pitiful whine, standing on his tiptoes (probably to peer over her shoulder, though he was so small that she wasn’t sure he’d manage) to try and see Roy. The man in question furrowed his brow at them, four slips of paper—the tickets, probably—held in one hand. “Everyone okay?”

Riza exchanged a glance with Al as Ed detached himself from Riza, limping over to Roy and tugging on his coat with a whine. There was an unspoken question in those glowing red eyes, as though he was…deferring to her on what to do, to say about Ed; it was surprising, given that the brothers were usually the authority on each other. Then again, they were all second-guessing themselves when it came to Ed _now._ Today was no different. _Alphonse_ was no different.

She nodded to Al, who gave her a grateful look and turned to Roy just as the man wrapped a gentle arm around Ed. “Brother’s nervous about going on the train,” he said quietly, wringing his hands; Ed squeaked in embarrassment, and Riza winced as tears welled up in his eyes before he buried his face in Roy’s wool coat. “The people—he’s worried about being in front of them, about them being mean, and I—maybe we should go back—”

To her surprise, Roy chuckled, handing Alphonse a ticket and passing Riza another. “The other passengers aren’t going to be a problem,” he promised, and Riza felt something strange and warm fill her chest as he turned to Ed and gently poked his nose. “And if anyone picks on you, I’ll send them straight to Al and Riza and they’ll throw them out the train window.”

“I would at least ask them to _stop_ first,” Al muttered absently, before yelping as his eyes found what Riza’s were currently glued to. “Wha— _first class?_ Colonel, we—I d-don’t think we can pay for this, Ed’s account was frozen after they said he was—” _Dead_ went unspoken.

“No need.” Roy waved his hand dismissively, ruffling Ed’s hair with the other. “What else am I gonna spend it on? Dramatic coats? One’s good enough for now. Takeout? Surprisingly a non-issue, given that I’ve miraculously learned to cook. Flowers? No one to send them to, except perhaps our darling Lieutenant for continuing the search. By the way, thank you for that, Lieutenant Hawkeye—”

“Anytime, sir,” she managed, still blinking down at the ticket. First class—that meant a private compartment for the four of them. Al wouldn’t get many weird looks, and Ed wouldn’t get any at _all,_ and they could likely talk freely within the confines of the compartment. Plus, it was a small enough space that Ed would feel safe. It was…perfect, and surprisingly thoughtful, more and more reminiscent of the boy she’d known before fire and sun and sand.

She’d have to pay him back for it at some point, but for now…for now they had a train to catch. 

Riza wrapped one hand gently around Ed’s as he drifted back to her side, slid the other into Alphonse’s, glancing at the both of them. Eyes of soulfire-red blazed with steely determination as they moved forward, while faded, misty gold glistened with a strange mixture of hope and unshed tears. Riza memorized their faces, burned them into her heart of hearts, right next to the end goal of her trial for her crimes in Ishval.

If that goal never came about, if she failed before then, if her atrocities went unchecked…then she’d at least protect them. _Both_ of them, no matter what.

It wasn’t need for atonement, or obligation, or duty. It was…overwhelming, and terrifying, and all-consuming.

It was love. The kind of love she’d never wanted to feel, would never deserve to have, that petrifying parental, _maternal_ love, so much more furious and potent and deadly in its power than she’d ever expected.  

Riza let it rush through her as she made that promise to herself, as she sat across from Al in their compartment and let Ed curl up across the seat, his head in her lap. Let it consume her, breathed it in and out as she quietly asked Al if she could talk to him that night, as she pulled out _A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_ again and started reading to Ed about the escapades of Arthur Dent and his strange alien friends. Swore that promise over and over to herself, again and again and again.

_I will protect them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby on a train! Baby on a train! BABY ON A TRAIN! 
> 
> Next chapter, we'll be in Risembool at last! Unfortunately, we won't see a lot of Winry until chapter nineteen; the next chapter focuses on Ed angst and the chapter after that on Roy parenting and the chapter after _that _on Riza parenting Al. I hope you're ready for a boatload of angst!__
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> _Once again, thank you all so, so much for reading. If you liked it, please leave a kudos and/or a comment, and I'll see you next Tuesday! Mwah~_  
> 


	16. how do you run from your own mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Al was…Al was his protector now. His little brother had to look after _him_ now, because Ed was too dumb and broken and _weak_ to take care of Al like big brothers were supposed to take care of their siblings. Because Ed had ruined it _before,_ had cursed him with that awful metal coffin of a body and then—and then _They’d_ taken him, and the Ed of _now_ was too stupid to try and fix what he’d done. Before-Ed had destroyed it all…and now he had the nerve to be unable to take responsibility.
> 
> And Al didn’t seem to care about that at _all._ Didn’t—didn’t _blame_ Ed, didn’t seem to think he was dumb or stupid or beyond rede—redem—saving? He didn’t care that Ed couldn’t—couldn’t even _read,_ that he needed to have a stuffed animal with him all the time to keep from panicking, that he was scared to go outside and needed to be carried places even with his leg fixed, that he cried easily and didn’t like fighting anymore. He still _loved_ him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Antidote by Faith Marie
> 
> Ed suffers a massive panic attack and a bit of a relapse in this chapter due to the unfamiliarity of his surroundings, general anxiety and trauma, and the feeling that he's abandoning his home (and by extension, his mother) in Risembool. Also, more Al!

The grass crunched under Ed’s bare feet as he wandered across the fields, the familiar (and slightly frightening, he hated to admit) yellow walls of the Rockbell house left behind as he ventured out into the—December? Was it January yet? He still didn’t _know_ and he didn’t really _want_ to, either—morning, Ree clutched in his arm. It wasn’t as cold as he’d thought it would be, despite the sheet of frost covering the grass (Al would be so disappointed that he’d been dumb enough to go out without shoes, he thought with a familiar, heavy guilt, but he couldn’t figure out the laces and putting socks on with one hand when your hands wouldn’t stop shaking _ever_ was harder than he’d thought); sure, the chill was maybe sort-of biting at him a little bit, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the—the _cell_.

 _It’s practically toasty, compared to that,_ he thought, and couldn’t stop a hysterical little giggle from slipping out. It was _true_ , though, and he knew that was the kind of thing he could never-ever-ever in a _million_ years reveal to Roy or Riza because Roy would get that sad look and then the _mad_ one that Riza promised wasn’t his fault but felt an awful lot like it anyway, and Riza’s face would turn to ice as she held him and kissed his forehead and told him that what they did wasn’t okay (which he sort-of knew, but it was—it was _hard,_ and it didn’t make _sense_ when he tried to put it together in his head) and that he didn’t deserve it (which was _wrong,_ because he did, didn’t he? They wouldn’t have taken him if he wasn’t—wasn’t _bad_ and needed the—the hurt and the cell and the Bar).

Al… _maybe_ he could tell Al, because Al would never leave him, even if he was really, really bad and started hurting people again. He was starting to think that maybe Roy and Riza wouldn’t either (they looked at him with that strange, deep feeling that he was too scared to name, like he meant everything in the world to them, but—but that didn’t make sense, because he wasn’t worth _anything_ and besides, they had more important things to care about than a stupid little not-alchemist), but he could _always_ count on Al, no matter what. Al was the one who was there first in the middle of the night when he woke up screaming, and the last one to leave when he fell asleep. He helped him with the alphabet even though he had Big Important Research Things that Ed could no longer help with, and got him a notepad to scribble things in—no practicing, he told him sternly, the notepad was to be used Just For Fun (he said it with capital letters _out loud,_ which Ed didn’t even know was possible) and that meant drawings and suns and moons and stickers and anything Ed wanted. Al still _loved_ him, even after everything he’d done and could no longer do.

That, he decided, was probably why he’d trusted him with _this._ Not—not the _whole_ plan, but enough to ask him where _it_ was, because the others wouldn’t know and Winry would probably ask a lot of questions and Granny—well, he hadn’t really gotten to talk to her, he’d been asleep when they arrived yesterday and was sort of really _scared_ to. But he’d asked Al, because Al always understood and listened to him even when he didn’t and still _trusted_ him, and Al would always be honest with him.

Al was…Al was his protector now. His little brother had to look after _him_ now, because Ed was too dumb and broken and _weak_ to take care of Al like big brothers were supposed to take care of their siblings. Because Ed had ruined it _before,_ had cursed him with that awful metal coffin of a body and then—and then _They’d_ taken him, and the Ed of _now_ was too stupid to try and fix what he’d done. Before-Ed had destroyed it all…and now he had the nerve to be unable to take responsibility.

And Al didn’t seem to care about that at _all._ Didn’t—didn’t _blame_ Ed, didn’t seem to think he was dumb or stupid or beyond rede—redem—saving? He didn’t care that Ed couldn’t—couldn’t even _read,_ that he needed to have a stuffed animal with him all the time to keep from panicking, that he was scared to go outside and needed to be carried places even with his leg fixed, that he cried easily and didn’t like fighting anymore. He still _loved_ him.

Tears pricked at his eyes at the thought, and he buried his face in Ree’s soft blue fluff for a moment, halting. He swayed unsteadily in the cold breeze, whimpering quietly into her fur and holding her tight, as though she could keep all the bad and scary thoughts away, just like she did with the worst of his nightmares. He knew from Riza’s whispers and Al’s worried looks that they thought what he saw was the worst of it—the darkest, scariest moments, the ones that had made him…like this. The ones that had ruined his chances of ever being anything _but_ this ever again.

They weren’t. They were _terrifying,_ but they weren’t the worst of it, the darkest nightmares, the most frightening memories. Ree kept those away, going from a stuffed dragon to a creature of scales and fire and fury that stalked his dreams and blew fire at any of the Very Bad Ones when they came too close, and he _knew_ she wasn’t real, that she couldn’t think and feel and respond, but he loved her for it all the same.

Maybe that was why he clung to her so much, why the idea of losing her made him want to crumple to the ground and wail until the world righted itself again. Maybe it was just a plac—place— _distraction_ that helped him not focus on the worst of the problem, but she kept him from wetting the bed every night and being too scared to sleep entirely, so he couldn’t—he _couldn’t_ let go. Even if that really _did_ make him babyish and too-frail and _bad._

He shivered as the cold bit at him again, lowering Ree reluctantly and nuzzling his face into the soft, fleecy red scarf Roy had bought for him. It smelled a bit like the apartment, like smoke and crumbling leaves and autumn, and he shuddered again, wishing he’d had the for—foreth— _mind_ to bring his coat with him, or to bring someone else with him.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time—he hadn’t been there in forever and Riza and Roy were tired from taking care of him all the time (they never said it, but there were shadows under Roy’s eyes and Riza was exhausted from running the search for Them—he didn’t have the strength or courage to beg her not to, to let it be so They didn’t hurt her too—and helping him at the same time, and he wished he could tell them that they didn’t have to but he was scared and selfish and _bad_ and didn’t want to). Winry and Granny were both asleep, and Al was in the kitchen playing with Den, and Ed hadn’t been able to sleep anyway, so…

He’d been careful, too, and found himself obscurely proud of that fact. He’d been extra, extra quiet, hadn’t done anything that would make too much noise—like trying and failing to put on his coat or struggling with the stupid boots—before creeping out of the house to find the cemetery. Al had reminded him where he was—though Ed might have misled him a tiny bit and implied that he wanted _Al_ to take him to her grave before the—the reattachment process.

Lying was something that was _bad_ even before They’d taken Ed (more proof that Before-Ed, even if he’d been brave and strong and good at protecting people, was awful and bad—worse than he was _now_ , maybe), and Ed _hated_ lying to Al, felt like he was going to throw up the entire time. Al…Al shouldn’t be stuck taking care of him all the time, though, just because Ed was—was weak and small and ruined now. He was there for almost every nightmare, every awful night, holding his hand when he woke up and hugging him and reminding him that he was home and safe and far away from Their reach. He deserved to—to not worry for a little bit. To not think about Ed. To feel like _he_ was home.

 _Home._ It was a funny word, Ed thought absently, grass crunching beneath his feet as he neared the gravestones. In the Before, home had been…home had been _here._ Home had been with Winry, had been the house they burned down and the Rockbell home with its ever-open door and ceaseless kindness. Home had been the meadows, the farmer’s markets, the quiet, honey-coated summers and winter snows that painted the world in a soft, welcoming white. Home had been every single piece of Risembool, and now—

Now home was…somewhere else. He still loved Risembool, he _knew_ he did, even if his stupid, skittish heart kept telling him it was new and scary and he should run away, but it wasn’t…it hadn’t _been there_ when he was in the cell. It hadn’t protected him, provided walls and borders and boundaries to keep out the big, frightening world he was too scared to be a part of anymore. It hadn’t held him when he was crying and thrashing and begging anything, anyone who would listen to make it stop, make it hurt less, leave him _alone._ And maybe that was because it hadn’t had the chance to, but home—home was glow-in-the-dark stars on white-painted ceilings now. Home was a leather couch near enough a kitchen that he could nap on and know that his protectors were still within reach. Home was a stool and a kitchen counter and three kind, soothing voices telling him it was _okay_ to struggle with easy things, even if that seemed dumb and he couldn’t quite believe them.

Home…home was Roy Mustang’s apartment in East City.

Ed didn’t know whether to be glad it didn’t feel like a betrayal of Risembool or whether to hate himself for it—and did both.

He wished that he remembered the cemetery a little better when he found himself standing in front of the neat rows of gravestones—every one a life, every one a story that he couldn’t read, _wouldn’t_ read even if he still knew how. Some things belonged, he knew now, to the dead and the dead alone. The mourning, the grief—that belonged to the living. The dead…they got to feel some semblance of peace, he hoped. He didn’t want Mom worrying from…wherever she was, wherever it is they went when they died.

Absently, he brushed his fingers along the top of a gravestone, squeaking as Ree fell from his awkward hold and crouching to scoop her back up again. The cold was seeping in deeper, fingers quivering a little more than usual, and he shivered again, pulling Ree to his chest as his eyes drifted to the stone—

And he stared.

The letters—the _letters—_

_He still couldn’t read them._

They looked a little more familiar, a little more like _something_ and not just lines of gibberish, but he _couldn’t read them._ They were symbols, squiggles, blurring and shifting and not-right, _mocking_ him, and Ed whimpered as hot tears blurred his vision, legs giving out beneath him. They spilled over as he landed awkwardly on the frozen ground, pain and fear overwhelming him as he buried his face in Ree’s fuzz again, breath coming in ragged gulps. _The gravestones—I can’t read the gravestones, I don’t know who they are, I can’t do it—_

_I can’t find Mom._

The world seemed to open up beneath his feet as the realization hit him, a sob escaping as what was solid hollowed out and sent him falling, falling, falling into a never-ending abyss. _No—no, no, no, please—_

This was stupid, this was so _stupid,_ he should’ve _thought_ of this, he should have known what would _happen._ He couldn’t—couldn’t _read_ , not with just a few days of tracing letters and a year of Them taking bits and pieces of him out like his brain was a particularly fun puzzle they wanted to undo and solve _wrong._ And all the gravestones—they all looked similar enough that he couldn’t tell them apart, couldn’t pick his mom’s out from the bunch, even though he _should._ Without reading the names, the words, without _knowing…_

He couldn’t find her.

He couldn’t find her, and he was sobbing pathetically against a stranger’s grave, and no wonder They took him, no wonder They’d destroyed him, he was bad he was bad he was bad and he _deserved it._ They were right and he deserved it because he was selfish and stupid and broken and all they’d done was break him _more_ so people couldn’t put anything back together again without cutting themselves open and no matter how hard Ed tried he didn’t seem to be getting any better. Before-Ed was bad but Now-Ed was _worse_ and Mom hated him, both versions of him, hated him for hurting Al and forgetting her and being a bad son and this was _all his fault—_

_I want my mom._

The thought was a childish one, made all the worse by the fact that he couldn’t _find_ her and it was entirely his own fault, by the knowledge that she didn’t want him as a son ( _who would who would who would unwantedunwantedunwanted)_ anymore because of everything he’d done, the destruction he kept causing whenever he was dumb enough to try and _fix_ something. His throat was burning, lungs aching fiercely, and yet he couldn’t stop crying and crying and crying against the gravestone, the cold sinking into his very bones.

_I want my mom I wanna go home I don’t wanna be here I wanna go awayawayaway where no one can hurt me anymore I want my stars and my coat and my window back I want—_

A wail pulled from his throat as he crushed Ree to his chest, folding himself around the stuffed animal— _as though she could help, as though she can fix anything, as though she’d make you less of a useless little brat—_

A sudden burst of irrational anger tore through his chest and he choked on a scream of sheer, desperate _frustration,_ arm moving unbidden to throw Ree across the row of graves. He didn’t—didn’t deserve anything _good,_ and he didn’t _want_ her, either, _he didn’t he didn’t he didn’t,_ he just wanted to be _fixed_ and she couldn’t fix him.

_No one can fix me._

The satisfaction of throwing something, of _screaming_ with—with _anger_ instead of _fear,_ for once, dissipated as the cold sank in again, and Ed realized what he’d done. _A tantrum—I just threw a—a—like a stupid little kid—_ A hysterical, rasping laugh began to bubble from his throat, cloying and drowning as the tears coursed down his skin. Blindly, his hand reached out, rising unsteadily to his feet to quiet the anxiety that immediately bubbled up without something to hold. _They were right about you, They were right about you, They were right._

The laughter dwindled to whimpers as he searched through the tears for a blur of blue and found nothing, nothing, nothing, shoulders starting to tremble from more than the cold now. _No, please—I’m sorry, it was stupid, don’t leave me I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—_

_Want—I want—_

_RizaRoyAlsomeoneanyonefindmesaveme—_

_Please—_

“Ed?”

His head jerked up at the voice, as familiar to him as his own soul had once been, tingling, cool relief a balm to the red-hot terror as he reached up toward him and whimpered. Soulfire eyes gazed down at him, wide with horror and worry, as Al swept his arms around him with an audible gasp. “Oh, thank _god—_ when the hell did you run off? Everyone’s out looking for you, we’ve been worried _sick,_ I—” Ed ducked his head as Al drew away, scrutinizing him, trying to hide the tears on his face and quiet the panic running rampant through his veins “—Brother, what happened?”

Guilt steadily formed a pit in his stomach at that, and he pressed the heel of his palm against his eye for a moment, hysterical hiccups choking their way out through quiet sobs. _Why’s he still being gentle—being_ nice— _made them worry ruined everything stupid little brat such a nuisance wanna go homehomehome please Al please—_ “Ree,” he croaked out finally, and pressed his forehead against the armor’s chestplate with a whine. “I—g-got m-mad, an’—she—she _l-left_ —”

_You should leave too, before I become more of a burden, before I get worse, hurt you more._

“Ree…left?”

Fresh tears spilled over and Ed hiccupped again, burying his face in his hand. _Oh, sure, that’s a—a real mature way of putting it, saying a stuffed animal “left”; you threw her because you were throwing a fit like the pathetic child you are and you ruined everything you don’t deserve their kindness you should rot here in the cold._ “M-my fault, m-my—”

Al’s arms wrapped around him carefully, and Ed choked on a gasp and clung to him desperately as his little brother lifted him up, burying his face in his shoulder. _Coward, coward, I’m such a—_ “Can you start from the beginning, Ed?” A sob escaped at that, _why is he being nice, like I’m good, I’m_ not, _I’m badbadbad poison I ruin everything I touch and now I’ve ruined this too._ Gently, his brother’s hand rubbed circles on his back; the burn scars didn’t hurt anymore, but they tingled at the touch, as if they _knew_ what Al didn’t: that they were _punishments,_ not tortures, that he’d _earned_ them even when he tried so very, very hard to be good. “Maybe that’ll help a little.”

No—no, he couldn’t tell Al, Al couldn’t know, Al would _leave—_

But Ed had lied to him enough, hurt him enough. If Al wanted to leave…Ed would deserve that too. _Al,_ though, Al was too good and too kind and cared too much about him, even though he’d only ever hurt him. Al deserved the truth.

“C-couldn’t find M-mom,” he whispered against the metal of his little brother’s shoulder, feeling so very infinitesimally small. “Didn’t w-wanna make t-trouble—l-let them _s-sleep,_ but I w-wanted to s-see her, and t-then—” Without Ree there to hold, he found his fingers sliding into his mouth, face hidden against the cold steel. “T-then I c-couldn’t—couldn’t r-read the g-graves—m-markers,” he added, the words garbled and strange around his fingers; he didn’t have the strength to feel embarrassed about it, to do anything but hope that Al couldn’t understand and wouldn’t _leave._ “G-got ‘set, a-an’—”

Al made a small, horrified noise, trembling, and Ed flinched back, a sob pulling from his throat. _He knows, he’s gonna leave you, he hates you, they all hate you they_ should _hate you m’sorrysorrysorry._ “Ed, you could have _told_ me. I—I wanted to take you to see her, too, to tell her you’re alive and safe now. I wouldn’t have _minded_ going early.”

He sounded wounded, _betrayed,_ and Ed hated himself even _more_ in that moment. Al was—was _fourteen._ He shouldn’t be running after his stupid big brother or trying to keep him from getting hurt (because he was too fragile to take care of himself, too _weak),_ or stuck in a metal prison of a body for years on end. He should be—should be going to _school,_ and playing with friends and worrying about crushes.

And it was all Ed’s fault that he wasn’t.

“M’s-sorry, Al,” he croaked.

His brother shook his head, soulfire eyes glowing with hurt and grief and a thousand terrible things Ed knew damn well he’d caused. “No, I—” He blew out a sharp sigh, blustery and human enough that Ed jolted in his arms, expecting a rush of air to hit his face, and sank down to lean against a gravestone. A frightened whine escaped as a leather gauntlet tilted his chin up, forcing him to meet Al’s eyes. “I know that you didn’t want to cause any trouble,” Al said gently. “And I know you’re scared—of _so much,_ and I know I can’t begin to understand how that feels, but I—and Roy and Riza too, I-I _think_ — _want_ you to cause that sort of trouble, Ed.”

Ed blinked, brow furrowing in confusion. That—that didn’t make any sense _at all._ Causing trouble was bad, being like Before-Ed was _bad_ , so why—why would they want him to do anything like that again? “D-don’—don’ g-get it, Al,” he whispered plaintively. _Why aren’t you leaving? Why do you want me to—to be like_ him? _He doesn’t exist anymore; he’s_ dead. _They made sure of that._

Al chuckled, a little ruefully (a little _hysterically,_ Ed would realize later, like everything in him was fracturing to pieces and his strength and hope was dwindling bit by bit and it was all Ed’s fault. “I—I just—I k-know you don’t understand, and I wish you did, I wish you got that you’re—you’re _worth taking care of,_ Brother. Y-you’re worth—protecting, and comforting, and being asked to do things for. We—I  don’t mind helping you or protecting you.” There was a flash of pain in his eyes, so brief that it was there and gone in a blink, leaving him wondering if he’d really seen it at all. “I wish you’d let me help _more_.”

 Ed could only curl against him, shock and disbelief sharp in his chest as he was wrapped up in a hug. “You’ve looked after me since Mom died,” Al whispered, and even though there was nothing but a soul within the armor, Ed swore he could hear his little brother’s heartbeat. “Please let me return the favor.”

 _I can’t, I shouldn’t, I’m not good enough—_ he wanted to say all of those, but…Al didn’t want him to. Al didn’t think he was bad, didn’t hate him (and neither did Roy or Riza, he remembered suddenly, even if they _should),_ wanted him to try not to—to shatter completely.

He could be bad, he decided, just this once, and ask for something. He could be brave—for them. For Roy and for Riza and Winry and Granny and for _Al_ most of all. “G-go b-back now?”

He could tell Al was smiling, that he was _trying_ to even if his body wasn’t capable. “Want me to get Ree, Brother?”

Relief swept over him, threatened to swallow him whole; he’d have to say sorry to her, give her extra hugs and not let go for the rest of the day. “P-please,” he rasped, pressing his cheek against Al’s armor, and squeaked as Al rose to his feet, eyes sweeping the ground for a flicker of blue.

Al spotted her before he did, lying on the ground a row of graves over, just out of where his line of sight had been on the ground. Ed thought maybe it was because his brother was taller, and cleverer, and wasn’t constantly blinded by his stupid _fear._ He gasped as she was suddenly swept up into his arms, stained a bit with mud and grass (he dreaded the idea of having to put her through the wash; why had he thrown her, it was so _dumb),_ squishing her against his chest in sudden, overwhelming relief.

 _Let them help you,_ he imagined her whispering, her voice strong and soft all at once, just like her namesake’s. He held her closer, squeezing his eyes shut and burying his face in her fur and thought of wings, of flying, of strong arms holding him and gentle, calloused hands twined with his own and a kindness so deep he wanted nothing more than to drown in it. _Let them protect you. Let them…let them love you, if they want to. If they think you deserve it._

“…L-love y-you, Al,” he whispered against the fluff of the stuffed dragon, finally letting the tension, the terror wash away in the safety of his brother’s arms. _Thank you for coming, for staying, for telling me that it’s—that I—that asking is okay. That I’m not—bad, even if it doesn’t make sense._

Al hummed quietly, and Ed felt no pain, no fear, felt nothing but love as his brother carried him away from the dead. “I love you too, Brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ed's trying his best but still coming up short (and hating himself for it), Al is fracturing under the pressure of protecting his brother (and also hating himself for it), and everything is bad. Chapters 17 and 18 will be just as angsty (or perhaps more~). 
> 
> Also, 5000 HITS!!! WHAT THE HELL. YOU GUYS. I LOVE YOU. Thank you so, so much! 
> 
> As always, leave a comment and/or a kudos if you enjoyed it, and I'll see you next Tuesday!


	17. when the river sweeps you right off your feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In hindsight, running out into a town they knew very little about to look for a small, frightened child who knew the place like the back of his hand was probably a terrible idea, but neither of them had been exactly _thinking clearly_ at the time—or really thinking at all. Roy couldn’t explain the abject _terror_ that had gripped him at the idea of Ed being taken again, the tortures that had left him so fragile and hollow and frightened repeated until there was nothing left, of him being alone and terrified and frozen in the winter again. He just knew that he was supposed to _protect_ the kid, and if he failed—if he failed, he would never forgive himself.
> 
> The worst part about it was that Ed would have forgiven him in a _heartbeat,_ so broken and desperate and _trusting_ that Roy knew he would forgive him and Riza _anything,_ even when he shouldn’t. Even if it _hurt_ him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold On To Me by Valerie Broussard (her music is SO GOOD)
> 
> Today's chapter is a little shorter than usual, but I hope you enjoy it! I wanted to write the automail attachment in more depth, but the story didn't seem to flow right no matter how I reworked it until I removed it entirely. Which...sucks, 'cause it was a fun scene to write. Maybe I should do a deleted scenes thing at some point--but that's a long, long way off. Enjoy Roy being panicked and protective and this family being Wholesome And Adorable And Sad.

Had anyone told Roy a year ago that the Fullmetal Alchemist running off for just a few hours would drive him into a complete, frenzied panic, he would’ve told them to get the hell out of his office because he was a. worried enough about him as it was, and b. it was in _incredibly_ goddamn poor taste to joke about his missing subordinate while his entire team was driving themselves into the ground searching for him. And had anyone said it to him years _before_ Ed had vanished, he would’ve still ordered them to get the hell out of his office because clearly, they were completely insane.

And yet when Al had woken him up in a panic, shaking him and babbling in terror that he couldn’t find Ed anywhere, Roy had quickly devolved into _complete and utter panic._ His first thought had been the same he’d seen written in Al’s wild, soulfire eyes—that the people who’d taken Ed the first time had him again, and that he was gone for good this time, with no chance of escape or rescue. His second was that it had to be absolutely _freezing_ out, nothing but open skies and wind and meadows, and while those might have been reminders of home _before_ he was taken, they were terrifying to him now. There was nowhere to hide, nothing to chain him to earth, to reality, to remind him that he was _safe_ —God, Ed had to be out of his _mind_ with terror—

Needless to say, he’d woken up pretty damn fast.

Hawkeye had been on her feet and already heading out the door by the time he stumbled out, cursing with such speed and fluency that the old Ed would have been impressed (judging from Al’s face, which Roy had been steadily getting better and better at reading—anyone who said that the armor couldn’t express anything was _dead fucking wrong,_ he had no idea how he did it, but Alphonse Elric somehow managed to convey a thousand different emotions with just a flicker of those soulfire eyes—he’d had no idea she even _knew_ that many curse words in _that many languages),_ bursting out the door with her coat already somehow halfway on. Roy had been just a step behind her, telling Al to inform Winry and Dr. Rockbell _immediately—_ they should’ve been the first to know last time and they hadn’t been, and he wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice—before hurrying out into the brisk December chill.

In hindsight, running out into a town they knew very little about to look for a small, frightened child who knew the place like the back of his hand was probably a terrible idea, but neither of them had been exactly _thinking clearly_ at the time—or really thinking at all. Roy couldn’t explain the abject _terror_ that had gripped him at the idea of Ed being taken again, the tortures that had left him so fragile and hollow and frightened repeated until there was nothing left, of him being alone and terrified and frozen in the winter again. He just knew that he was supposed to _protect_ the kid, and if he failed—if he failed, he would never forgive himself.

The worst part about it was that Ed would have forgiven him in a _heartbeat,_ so broken and desperate and _trusting_ that Roy knew he would forgive him and Riza _anything,_ even when he shouldn’t. Even if it _hurt_ him. He was too scared to even _dream_ of biting the hand that had come to feed him, even when Roy would’ve cried tears of goddamn _joy_ if he snapped at one of them again. It was as if he’d _died,_ and come back to them with the life, the spark, the _soul_ scraped right out of his body, leaving him hollow, and then had been shattered until all that was left was dust and shadows and tiny, broken pieces no one could put back together. Roy had accepted that first day that the old Edward Elric was _gone,_ but that didn’t make it any easier when he made a comment that once would’ve been responded to with a vicious retort or a howling fit was met with barely a whimper.

It was selfish—disgustingly selfish—but Roy didn’t think he’d _survive_ losing Fullmetal again, or _finding_ him again if his captors really _had_ taken him. He didn’t think any of them would come out of it whole—not after this. Not after reading to the boy, carrying him when he was too weak to walk and watching his eyes light up when he tried strawberry ice cream for the first time.

Ed wasn’t his subordinate anymore, and Roy wasn’t his commanding officer. Whatever that made them, he didn’t know, but _over his dead fucking body_ would he let Ed be hurt again.

He and Riza had split up in hopes of covering as much ground as possible; no one, it seemed, had seen anyone who looked remotely like Ed run past. Rather than being reassuring, this had somehow spiked his fear even _higher_ (there was absolutely _nothing_ for miles around, just pure wilderness, what if he’d been taken out there and they _couldn’t track him—)._ Riza had practically crashed into him an hour later, radiating a terrifying, glacial energy, before gritting out that no one had seen him and no one had any idea where he might be going. Which, of course, hadn’t exactly helped calm Roy down, because that was _his kid—_ sort of— _out there, hurt and sick and possibly dying_ (which was maybe a stretch, but Roy had learned to expect the worst whenever something happened by now) and the fact that _no one could find him_ was implying terrible, terrible things.

They’d picked up the search even more furiously after their brief exchange, sticking together this time rather than splitting off. Two pairs of eyes were better than one, after all, and Roy hoped that maybe they’d find a clue—some scrap of fabric, or footprints, or (god forbid) blood. They looked again and again, more frantic each time, and every time came up with nothing—until, three hours later, Winry sprinted up to them and gasped out that Al had found him in the cemetery (alive, thank god, but cold and frightened and worried, she whispered in a small, heartbroken voice that implied that _worried_ was a bit of an understatement, that he and Riza had _left)_ and he was currently at the Rockbell house warming up.

And when they’d gotten back…

Well, Roy could only imagine how insane they looked—he hadn’t bothered getting dressed before rushing out, and neither, it seemed, had Riza; both of them were in coats and pajamas and hair going every-which-way (it was _windy_ out here in Risembool; not that East City was a paragon of perfect weather, but here there was nowhere to escape the wind but the indoors), looking equally frantic. Al had visibly relaxed when they’d burst in, Ed glancing up from the notebook his little brother had gotten him as pure, overwhelming _relief_ swept over his face, and he reached his single arm toward them with a whimper.

And Roy—

Roy hadn’t realized he was moving until he was kneeling beside the roaring fireplace, Ed suddenly curled up in his lap and clinging to him like he though he might dissolve within his grip, rocking him gently back and forth as he trembled and cried. The shot of pure, terrified _adrenaline_ that had jolted through him when Al stumbled in and choked out that his big brother was missing finally dissipated, leaving only a relief so deep and drowning it threatened to swallow him whole. He was left shaking in the wake of it, smoothing Ed’s hair down with his hand as the child cried and reminding himself that he was alive and _here,_ setting his chin atop his head as he whispered nonsense to him and kept rocking, kept soothing him—soothing the _both_ of them. 

“I’m here,” he found himself whispering to Ed over and over and over as he wept into his jacket. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here, Ed, I’m not going anywhere, please don’t ever run off like that again—” _You scared me, terrified me; you’ve sure got some kind of power over me now, kid_ “—it’s gonna be okay, I’m here.”

Ed didn’t speak, didn’t say a word—didn’t _have_ to. Roy felt the fear and relief and _trust_ rolling off of him in waves, deep and potent, and he closed his eyes as Ed tucked himself a little bit closer, letting his sobs dwindle into frightened, pathetic sniffles. “It’s gonna be okay,” he repeated softly, adjusting his grip on the shivering boy. _I’m with you, I’m with you, I’m with you._ “You’re going to be okay; I promise.” He didn’t know whether he was trying to convince Ed or himself, just that he needed to say something, _anything_ to calm him.

“He—he thought he was _helping.”_

Roy’s eyes flew open that the sound of Al’s voice, the frustration and fear in it. The armor had begun to quake, as if only just now realizing how easily they could have lost Ed again, as if without the panic and follow relief propelling him, anger and confusion was filling the gaps. “He thought he’d caused too much _trouble,”_ Al bit out, his gaze on the ground as Winry sucked in a horrified gasp; Ed curled up tighter, smaller in Roy’s arms, and he continued to rock him even as he listened. “That—that he was a burden and running off alone like that would let everyone rest and—” There was a frustrated noise, and Ed trembled even more. “I—I just—I don’t know—”

“Al.” Roy watched, still whispering nonsensical comforts to the child in his lap, as Riza slipped in front of him and laid a gentle hand on his forearm. “We’ll talk about this tonight, I promise you,” she murmured, her voice low enough that Ed—judging from his lack of reaction, anyway—either didn’t hear or didn’t fully process the words, “and we’ll talk to Ed about what happened tomorrow. Right now, though, he’s got a difficult procedure scheduled and I don’t think—can we move it back, Dr. Rockbell?”

Roy glanced at the small woman standing to the side, her beady eyes full of grief behind her round glasses. She blinked at Ed for a moment (Ed, who—as if he could sense the eyes on him—immediately curled up even smaller than before, if that was even possible), before seeming to steel herself and shaking her head regretfully. “Don’t think so, Lieutenant. As much as I wish we could, we’re running on an unusually tight schedule this season—most people wanna get their operations done before the real dead of winter sets in, and after this Win and I’ve gotta get right back to work.”

Dr. Rockbell, Roy had learned in just a few short weeks of calls and brief meetings and anecdotes from Al and even Winry, was not the kind of person who apologized for anything. If she did something, she meant it, and if she _said_ something, she meant that just as wholeheartedly. Tough as nails, no-nonsense, unapologetic, downright _terrifying_ when she wanted to be—a woman after Chris Mustang’s heart, he thought dryly. She’d looked after the Elric brothers along with her granddaughter for years after the three had been left essentially orphaned, and in every story Al and Winry had told, she’d never been one to sugarcoat anything. He doubted she would start now.

But the sorrow and sympathy and horror in her eyes when she looked at Ed, huddled in Roy’s lap and clinging to him as if he could keep the bad things away all on his own (and God, Roy wished he could), seemed like an apology all on its own. Her voice was brisk when she spoke again, but there was some deep, quiet sorrow within it as she said, “Winry, go and prep the room.”

Winry nodded, her gaze distant, distracted, still focused on Ed. Her smile was weak, wavering as she whispered, “See you in a bit,” and waved at Ed, who uncurled just enough to manage a little wave back. Her smile widened at that, then cracked at the edges, and she rushed out of the room—leaving the soldier, the sharpshooter, the hollow boy, and the broken one with a woman older and wiser than any of them.

Pinako Rockbell gazed at them all solemnly, her eyes those of someone who had seen the death of loved ones—of her own _children—_ many times before, and somehow carried on through that terrible, backbreaking burden. Roy couldn’t help stiffening as that piercing gaze swept over him, dark eyes sharp and clear as chips of ice as she scrutinized him, then Riza. As if… _looking_ for something—something _in_ them. Testing them.

Whatever she saw made her dip her head in a brusque nod. “Take care of them,” she called over her shoulder as she followed her granddaughter down the hall, back straight and presence enormous despite how small she was.

Roy watched her go, wondering absently what she had seen that made her feel she could trust them with Ed—if that’s what she had been doing—before finally drawing away from the kid, moving back enough to look him in the eyes. In his peripheral, Riza gave Al’s hand a gentle squeeze and murmured something he couldn’t quite hear before kneeling beside him, close enough that Ed could see the both of them clearly. “Ed,” he said gently, “We’re definitely going to talk about what happened—” Golden eyes watered, but Ed bobbed his head with a quiet whimper “—but not right now, okay?”

Right now…right now they needed to ready him for a procedure that, by all means, was perfectly brief—and had been known to make grown men scream and cry like children. And sure, Ed had gone through it almost routinely, but that had been _before_ he’d been taken. That was _before_ he crawled his way back to them, a shadow of himself, terrified of everything and broken so badly that they couldn’t even _find_ all the pieces, much less piece them back together.

 _“Malo sveta,”_ Riza whispered beside him, and Ed hid his face in the blue fluff of his Ree with a quiet whimper. There were stains on it, Roy noticed, brow furrowing; hopefully the talk with the kid later would illuminate why he’d run out, why the stuffed animal was dirty—why he’d gone out without a _coat,_ he could’ve gotten sick _again, Roy stop panicking that’s not the_ issue _now._ “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. We can find a way to set a different appointment for a later date, even if we can’t push this one back, or find something less painful for now.”   

Ed didn’t lift his head, but he shook it furiously, strands of overgrown blond hair flying as he clung to the toy. Roy’s heart sank, then hardened with resolve—this was something Ed knew the risks of intimately, and still wanted desperately. Despite the agonizing pain, despite the anxiety that surrounded him every single moment, he _wanted_ to do this. Maybe needed to _try,_ at least, for his own peace of mind.

He couldn’t take it away from him. They _had_ to let him do this—and really, there was no better place to do it than here, surrounded by people who cared about him and with two experts who knew how to handle any possible mishaps on hand. This was the safest possible thing.

He reached out a hand as Ed peeked out nervously from behind the stuffed animal, ready to help him up. “Then let’s go get you an arm, kiddo.”

Relief flooded that small, tearstained face, and Roy couldn’t help the immense, strange feeling of _gratitude_ that swept over him as Ed twined his fingers with his, Riza catching Ree before she could fall to the floor. Carefully, haltingly, he pulled Ed to his feet—and yelped as he practically _careened_ into him, burying his face in his chest and holding him in a trembling hug that was…surprisingly _strong._

“Y-you and R-Riza—s-stay?”

An echo of the question, Roy realized, that he’d asked a little over a month ago, when they’d found him—when he’d begged Roy and Riza and Al to stay with him when he was feverish and scared to death of being left alone in Knox’s. When he’d been facing another source of pain, when he’d barely calmed from another panic attack—and he was asking yet again, as if nothing and yet _everything_ had changed since then, and he still wasn’t sure they would stay with him, care for him, _love_ him.

A lump formed in Roy’s throat, and he wrapped his arms around Ed, hugging him close. “Always,” he choked out, closing his eyes. “ _Always_ , Ed.”

Roy had always been good at making promises: to Maes, to Riza, to his team, his country—even to the Elric brothers. This, though—this ran deeper than a promise, than words, than _blood,_ even. This rang of a universal truth deeper than anything he’d ever known, rang with all the truth of a prophecy.

Roy would _always_ be there for Edward Elric. Now and forever.

He’d promised it to himself before, but he repeated it again to himself, carved it into his heart, his soul—swore it on silver watches and blue uniforms and blood as he and Riza walked him into the room, vowed it upon sunfire and desert sands and the lives of the people he destroyed as he held Ed’s hand, promised it to the people he still had to protect and the brother waiting nervously just outside and the partner who held his gaze the entire time as Ed let out a _scream_ when the nerves reconnected and practically threw himself into Roy’s arms, sobbing like his heart was tearing itself to shreds in his chest.

_I’ll stay with you, as long as you need me. Always._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! The next one is 75% Al and Riza content, which I figured we should probably get more of. It'll be capital-A Angsty, I promise you that. Also, 5500 hits!!! WHAT. I'm losing it over here, y'all. You're the best <3
> 
> Once again, thank you so much for reading! Please leave a comment and/or a kudos if you enjoyed it, bookmark it if you want to stay tuned for more, and I'll see you next Tuesday!


	18. and if you can't escape all your uncertainties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had to listen to Al now, that was her mission-of-sorts, and if she spiraled down that vortex of guilt and fury and self-loathing, she wouldn’t climb out for a long, long while. “Did it scare you?” she said finally, when it became clear that Al wasn’t going to respond—didn’t know how to answer, maybe, or wanted to hide it, but she couldn’t let him keep it bottled up.
> 
>  
> 
> _I know better than anyone what happens when you try to erase your emotions for the sake of others. When you try to erase your own humanity._
> 
>  
> 
> “N-no.”
> 
> Riza couldn’t help raising an eyebrow skeptically at that—the wail had scared _her;_ she couldn’t imagine how hard it had been on him and Winry. Sure enough, there was a moment—barely a heartbeat, before Al made a choked noise and shook his head. _“Y-yes.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lay It All On Me by Rudimental
> 
> At last, the long-awaited Riza and Al chapter is here! I hope you enjoy it!

Ed cried himself to sleep in Roy’s grip, clinging tightly to him as Riza rubbed his back and murmured soothingly, helplessly. Only once did she dare to glance up from him: when Winry and Dr. Rockbell exited the room, the latter murmuring quietly to the rattled girl, whose wide blue eyes were locked firmly on her trembling, wailing friend. Absently, Riza recalled what Al had told her offhandedly once—that Ed never screamed when the surgery happened, or whenever the automail was attached. He’d complain and sulk and grimace exaggeratedly through it (the same thing every time, Al had said, sounding fond and wistful as they watched Ed quietly doodle in the notebook his little brother had gotten him, always the same arguments, the same song and dance), but never scream, never _cry._

For Riza, who’d had seen Ed like this for the past month and a half, who saw how easily he cried and how quick he was to frighten, to panic (never without reason, never without a _right_ to, she would never, ever blame him for this), this was something she’d expected and been prepared for both logically and emotionally. The agonized, heartbreaking sobs still stabbed at something deep within her, but she knew how to fill in the gap of the gash it left behind and focus her attention on comforting the child that was as good as hers.

Winry…Winry had no such experience. She’d seen Ed in his new and shattered state, yes, but she’d also seen him at the best he’d been since Roy had found him. She hadn’t seen him at his lowest low—hadn’t been ready for the screaming, the keening, animalistic cries of pain and fear.

Riza didn’t blame her for not knowing how to handle it. Not in the slightest; hell, _she_ barely knew how to handle it. Roy, who was arguably the best at calming him when he was like this (she prided herself on how good she was at it, yes, but as a—a sort-of _parent_ , and goodness, wasn’t that a weird notion—she had to acknowledge that Roy was around him more often and thus was ever-so-slightly better at intuitively telling what he needed), barely knew how to handle it. _Alphonse,_ who had been with him since infancy, barely knew how to handle it—could comfort him, yes, but was steadily growing more and more unsteady, faltering bit by bit, and though she knew he loved his brother, she could tell he was terrified and didn’t know how to proceed.

She needed to talk to him _tonight,_ she decided, watching soulfire eyes peek in as Roy hummed a sweet and lilting lullaby to the boy whose hair she stroked, before the younger Elric turned away with a worrying air of _guilt._ Ed’s sobs were steadily dwindling to sniffles and hiccups as he dozed off, Roy looking just as weary even as he soothed him.

It wouldn’t take much to convince him to head back to the guest room Dr. Rockbell had graciously offered him and get some rest; she also suspected that detaching Ed’s death-grip—aided now by metal fingers instead of just fragile hands that were still too weak to hold a cup without trembling—from Roy’s shirt was going to be near-impossible, so the two would have to stick together (two birds with one stone, so to speak). Plus, they were still in their pajamas (she and Roy hadn’t exactly thought things through much before rushing outside, and Ed, she knew, struggled with dressing on his own because of the missing hand), so it would likely be a little more comfortable than if they were in street clothes.

The heartbreaking sobs stopped when Ed fell asleep—one she already could tell was going to be deep and dark and nightmare-ridden from the way his breathing kept hitching painfully—but the tears didn’t, gliding silently down his face in his slumber. Riza raised her eyes to Roy’s as he shifted the boy in his lap, murmuring soothingly to him and stroking his hair, holding him close with a look of such infinite tenderness and infinite fear that it took her breath away. She watched them with a strange sort of fondness, two of the most important people in her life (and in _each_ _other’s_ lives; had anyone told her before Ed was taken that they would grow to form such an implicit trust in each other, she would have considered them mad) in such a deceptively peaceful moment, a breath of silence between screams.

That fondness only swelled, warm and soft and steady as lamplight on a midnight-darkened street, as Roy yawned. Black eyes finally met hers, a rueful, exhausted attempt at a smile crossing his face as he ran his fingers absently through Ed’s loose golden hair. “I think I’ve been repurposed as a branch or something.”

The statement was so bizarre, so out-of-place, that Riza caught herself barking a surprised laugh before wincing at the noise. _You idiot,_ she berated herself, _he’s going to wake up and be in pain again—_ but Ed only stirred slightly, warbling out a faint, reedy whimper before falling silent again. Relief swept through her, her shoulders slumping from the overwhelming coolness of it even as she repeated, “A—a _branch,_ sir?”

Roy’s lips quirked up a little further, eyes crinkling at the corners as those black eyes sparked with amusement. “Well, yeah. He’s kind of like a little sloth right now, and I’m the branch he’s sleeping on.” He shifted Ed in his lap again until the boy’s head was resting on his chest, another whimper escaping him before he quieted. “See? Baby sloth—mostly cuddly, small, very, _very_ sleepy….”

Probably moreso than any of them realized, Riza knew, sharp grief and sharper rage pricking at her heart as she reached out, her hand settling lightly on Ed’s shoulder. She’d tried to coax him into napping on the train, and he _had_ dozed a bit—but only that: a _bit._ He hadn’t been asleep when Riza had checked in on him and Al before heading off to her own room last night, and if he’d woken without any of them figuring out…well, he probably hadn’t slept well. Or at all, really. “He needs to rest,” she agreed, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze, mindful of the still-sensitive flesh around the automail before she glanced at Roy. “And so do you.”

Roy blinked at her in—shock? Confusion? Both? —before snorting. “Telling me _not_ to work, Lieutenant? I never thought I’d see the day.”

The corner of her mouth tugged up traitorously, but she settled into a flat stare quickly. “I mean it. Sir,” she added as if it was an afterthought, narrowing her eyes at him. “You can’t detangle him without waking him up, and that’s the last thing he needs—and besides, you’re obviously exhausted.”

Stubbornness glinted in black eyes, suddenly sharp and biting. “So are you.”

 And—well, she couldn’t argue with that, but Roy was clearly seconds from falling asleep, and she could hold on until after her conversation with Al. “I’ll sleep soon,” she assured him, rising to her feet and grabbing Ed’s Ree off the stool by the little hospital bed. Carefully, she settled the stuffed dragon into Ed’s arms, noting with another wave of that _fondness_ how the remaining tension seemed to rush out of his body at the soft comfort. “Go rest,” she urged, trying to keep the note of pleading out of her voice. “That’s an order, sir.”

“Aren’t I _your_ commanding officer?” Roy muttered, but he rose to his feet willingly enough, shuffling toward the door. He hesitated before stepping through, glancing back at her. “Are you sure—”

Riza leveled a stern glare at him, knowing that it would crack the last of his resolve. _“Sleep,_ Roy.”

A hint of relief flickered across his face, even as a ghost of a smirk followed. “Yes ma’am,” he muttered, padding out the door and—presumably (she _hoped)—_ toward his room, Ed still cradled in his arms, fast asleep. Riza watched them go, waiting for the clank of metal footsteps to echo, for red eyes to flash as Alphonse peered into the room.

It never came. A familiar worry prickled in her chest, a less overwhelming version of the one that had swamped her when she found out Ed had vanished this morning, concerns beginning to crowd her mind as she made her way to the door. _Is he okay? Is he—well, he can’t be hurt, not physically, but something must have happened._ She poked her head through the doorway warily, glancing from side to side, and—

There he was, sitting cross-legged on the floor just outside, red eyes focused forlornly on the empty hallway she knew Roy had just walked down. For a moment, she could only marvel at how _small_ he seemed, despite the bulk of the armor that had become his body; he was taller, physically _stronger_ than any of them, and seemed to be the most steady emotionally at times, the anchor to his brother’s once-raging storm and now to his flyaway, fragile heart, but he was still only fourteen. He was a _child_ —one who had lost the only family had and gotten him back not-quite-right.

_I should have spoken to him earlier._

“…I’ve never heard him scream like that.”

The words were quiet, strangely _dull—_ but there was an underlying current of _horror_ there that Riza knew all too well. She sat down beside him, close enough that she could lay a hand on his arm, pull him into a hug (and she _wanted_ to, truthfully, to hold his hand and comfort him—but she did neither, did nothing to interrupt what he so badly needed to say). Al’s gaze shifted to her, eyes widening, before fixing on the ground before him.

Riza waited patiently, knowing he would speak again, knowing he’d reached the breaking point of his silent, self-sacrificial stoicism. This was Al’s story to tell, Al’s pain to pour out into the open air before them. Rushing it…rushing it would disrespect all that the both of them had suffered through, struggled through.

Sure enough, Al—though he didn’t need to breathe, though he technically _couldn’t—_ sucked in a trembling breath and continued, “I—I’ve heard him scream, obviously. Before it was—it was usually when he was angry, you know?” He chuckled hoarsely, mirthlessly, the sound strange and _wrong_ coming from the mouth of a fourteen-year-old. “I mean, you probably know that. I don’t think he’s yelled at anyone nearly as much as the colonel, ‘cept maybe Winry—but he never _meant_ it,” Al adds quickly, as if that was even a _question_ in her mind, looking suddenly worried—as if Riza might retract her help, might leave them behind because of the vicious words Ed loved spouting in the face of “the bastard colonel’s” smug grins. “He just—”

“He’s a teenager,” Riza agreed, offering a gentle, understanding smile even as grief for that boy of wildfire and leashed lightning hollowed out her chest, “and Colonel Mustang has never been good at taking the high road if there’s an opportunity to snark off.”

Al choked on a laugh, bowing his head. “Y-yeah. It’s just…he’s screamed before—you know, before-before.” _Before he was taken, before he was hurt, before he was beaten and burned and broken down into a terrified, fragile ghost of himself._ “And he’s screamed before today, too—he w-won’t tell me what the nightmares are about, but I can hear him—hear him begging the people who hurt him to _stop.”_ Al’s eyes were burning overbright now, as close to tears as he could possibly get. “And I know they never do, because then he starts crying and saying he’s sorry and nothing I do snaps him out of it—but—but today—I didn’t—”

Al’s head fell into his hands, and Riza’s heart cracked even as she laid a hand on his forearm. “He’s never screamed during the reattachment,” he said in a small voice. “Never. And I knew it hurt, and that he didn’t _want_ me to know it hurt, but he sounded—so _s-scared.”_ Hands of metal and leather trembled in his lap. “It sounded like his soul was being ripped out of his body—l-like he couldn’t breathe and someone was reaching into his chest and c-crushing his heart, l-like someone had set him on _f-fire.”_ There was a noise almost like a gulp, like he was choking back tears, and her heart twisted, grief and rage at what Ed’s captors had turned them all into throbbing in her chest. “He’s—he’s had it reattached and repaired a hundred times, and he’s n-never—”

“Screamed like _that_ ,” she finished quietly, because despite not having been there for the attachments of the past, she could see where he was coming from. The _scream_ that had torn from his throat had surprised even her, a sound of pure terror and agony—he’d tried to thrash, to struggle, but Dr. Rockbell had directed them to restrain him and it had broken her heart, her _soul,_ but she’d helped hold weak limbs still until the struggling turned to tremors and that horrible scream to wails of fear and self-loathing. As soon as they’d moved back even an inch, Ed had thrown himself at Roy with a sob and refused to let go, and all she’d been able to do was rub his back gently as that scream echoed in her ears.

He didn’t sound like that in his nightmares, in the depths of his worst panics. He would sound terrified, frightened out of his mind or frustrated beyond words until all he could do was cry, but he’d never sounded so…so utterly _hopeless._

_Did he think—when we were holding him down, did he think he was back—back there?_

The thought, sudden and burning, filled her with nauseating horror that she quickly beat down. She’d—she’d deal with that later, if at all. She had to listen to Al now, that was her mission-of-sorts, and if she spiraled down that vortex of guilt and fury and self-loathing, she wouldn’t climb out for a long, long while. “Did it scare you?” she said finally, when it became clear that Al wasn’t going to respond—didn’t know how to answer, maybe, or wanted to hide it, but she couldn’t let him keep it bottled up.

_I know better than anyone what happens when you try to erase your emotions for the sake of others. When you try to erase your own humanity._

“N-no.”

Riza couldn’t help raising an eyebrow skeptically at that—the wail had scared _her;_ she couldn’t imagine how hard it had been on him and Winry. Sure enough, there was a moment—barely a heartbeat, before Al made a choked noise and shook his head. _“Y-yes.”_

_And there we are—finally getting to the heart of it._

“I—it _s-shouldn’t,_ I’ve got no right to be scared, not after everything he’s been through, but—but I don’t know what to _do!”_ Al buried his face in his hands, pulling his knees to his chest as a shudder ran through his body; he sounded so distraught that Riza found herself sliding closer, her hand gliding up to rest on his shoulder. She knew he couldn’t _feel_ it, but maybe—maybe some comfort, _any_ comfort would help. “He’s—he’s _hurt,_ he’s _scared_ and I’m supposed to protect him, to _help_ him, but I don’t know—I h-have _no idea how!_

“He—h-he protected me for so _long—”_ There was a sob, painful despite the boy’s lack of lungs, of breath, of anything but an echoing voice and the glimmer of a soul “—and when he needs _me_ , when I should be protecting _him,_ I keep—I keep startling him, or upsetting him, or not _getting_ it, and whenever I actually do something _right_ it’s because I’m r-repeating what someone _else_ says  a-and—and he s-still _t-trusts_ me.” There was genuine _horror_ in his voice. “And I’m t-terrified of m-messing up and—and _h-hurting_ him, b-but he’s so _f-fragile_ and I don’t know how to protect him and I’m so, s-so _scared—"_

Riza’s heart twisted painfully again. _I should have been paying attention,_ she berated herself, _I should’ve noticed he was upset, I should’ve done_ something— _but I didn’t, and now…God, I’m sorry, Al._ “I’m sorry,” she whispered, resting her head against his arm. “I’m so, so sorry, Al.”

What else could she say? There were no words that would change any of this—no words that would take away what Al was feeling, nothing that would ease the weight of the guilt crushing his chest. She could comfort him, lessen the ache as much as she could, but this wound…this one ran deeper than she could’ve imagined. “If it helps,” she started, a bit lamely, “Roy and I—we’re just guessing at everything as well, trying whatever seems to work.” _We have no idea what we’re doing either._

“But you’re _succeeding!”_ Al burst out, raising his head and fixing her in a sharp, almost accusatory stare. A second later, there was a noise like a gusty exhale, grief and sorrow shimmering in those glowing red eyes, and he shook his head. “I—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be yelling.” He chuckled, the noise bitter and mirthless. “Some protector I am, huh? Getting mad at people for actually _helping.”_

_Oh._

_He’s…he’s_ jealous, Riza realized, the outburst suddenly clicking with everything he’s said. _Jealous of us for being able to protect him, as much as he’s scared of losing him, of hurting him. He’s jealous and terrified and angry and has no idea how to handle any of it, so he’s…ignoring it instead of dealing with it. Oh, Al…_ “You have every right to be angry,” she pointed out, reaching for his hand and squeezing it gently. “Someone you love—who you relied on, who you trusted more than anything—was hurt, and you can’t lean on them anymore, and you’ve been the protected for so long that you don’t know how to take care of him.” Gently, she rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand. “You’re an alchemist—a fixer. And yet when the most important person in your life breaks…you can’t figure out how to put him back together, or even if it’s possible.”

Al stared at her, red eyes wide and glowing bright—and for a moment, she could see the child beneath, tear-filled hazel eyes and golden hair and hands curled tight into frustrated fists. She could _see_ as his face crumpled, the tears beginning to fall in that strange place where his body was held separate from his soul—and Al began to sob, shoulders trembling. “I—I _s-should_ know—he’s a-always known what I-I’m upset about, always h-helped me w-when I was hurt, and he’s still p-pushing himself t-too hard with his stupid r-reading practice so he can _f-fix me—_ and I can’t do _a-anything_ to help, I can’t protect him, I can’t m-make him whole again, I c-can’t find the people who h-hurt him and make s-sure they can never reach him again, I c-can’t even _hold_ him p-properly—” He shook his head wildly, choking on another cry. “I c-can’t comfort h-him, and I s-scare him whenever he wakes up—he doesn’t say it, he never would, b-but I _s-see_ it, a-and I don’t—I _hate_ b-being like this, and I c-can’t tell him, he’s g-got so much t-to deal with already and h-he already t-thinks this is h-his fault, I—”

 _I knew it, I knew it—I’m so, so sorry, Al._ “You _are_ helping,” Riza said fiercely, wrapping her arms around him as best she could, her heart swelling with that bone-deep sorrow and that terrifying, hurricane-force _love_ beating at her chest, howling at her to _protect him protect him protect him._ “I know—I _know_ it’s hard to tell, that it feels like you’re swimming upriver, like _nothing’s_ going right—but he lights up when you’re around, Al. It hurts, and it’s terrifying, but he loves you more than _anything_ in the world.”

Al sobbed again, hiding his face in his knees. Riza closed her eyes, resting her forehead against the cool steel of his arm. “You help him just by being _around_ him,” she whispered. “You don’t see it, but he’s so much calmer, so much _happier_ when you’re near. You might not be able to fix him on your own, and he might never be the person he used to be _—_ but please never, _never_ think that you’re failing him, because you’re doing more for him than Roy and I ever could without you.”

“B-but he’s still _s-scared,”_ Al choked out, trembling. “I’m s-supposed to protect him, b-but I—he s-still tries to protect _m-me,_ you know that? He can _t-tell_ when I’m u-upset and he’ll start a-apologizing like _h-he’s_ the one at fault.”

Riza didn’t know what to say to that—didn’t know how to tell him that Ed was scared of _losing_ him, not _of_ him, that Ed couldn’t find the words to say it to him, that he wasn’t at fault here. All she could do was hold him as he wept, her heart shattering into more and more pieces with every quiet sob. _You’re his heart, his soul, his everything._ She held him, willing him to understand as she let him shake and sob, as melancholy swallowed them both whole, as the minutes ticked past in silence. _You’re the only reason he found his way back to us. Without you…without you, Al, there would be nothing._ He _would be nothing—would be lost to us forever._

“I want to _k-kill them.”_

Riza’s eyes widened as Al whispered those five damning words, gauntlets suddenly clenching into fists. He twisted his head to look down at her, soulfire eyes shining with grief…and _fury._ “I’ve never wanted to kill someone before, not really,” he said quietly, and his voice was almost _distant,_ faraway and lost in some strange fog, and for a terrible moment Riza was reminded of herself after her first kill. Reminded of watching red blossom on white cloth, the light in the red eyes of her enemy fading away ( _a human being, just like you—no, not like you, you’re a monster now, a killer now)_ , the horrible satisfaction and the sickly feeling of a stain on her soul she couldn’t scrub out. “B-but they—I think about the people who must have done this, and I want them to _hurt._ I want to watch them _bleed.”_ His voice rose, the normally sweet, gentle boy turned into a creature of jagged edges and barbed wire. “I want them to _suffer_ for what they did to him—to pay them back for every single stupid _burn,_ for the whip marks on his back, for the way he struggles to eat normal, human portions because they _starved_ him for so long. I want to lock them in the dark and _laugh_ when they scream and beg to be let out, when nightmares come calling.

“And I—I _know_ Ed wouldn’t want me to become a murderer, even for him. He’d try to tell me that it’s not worth it, that _he’s_ not—” Al made a frustrated noise, shaking his head again, before wilting as Riza tentatively laid her hand atop his, rubbing her thumb gently over the back of it. “It scares me,” he admitted in a small voice. “That I want to—to kill them. To hurt them. But I _do,_ and I will, if it means protecting him.”

Iron—iron in the voice of a boy made of steel, iron and ice and deadly, all-consuming cold. A Drachman winter personified, a human heart paired with nature’s utter ruthlessness…a boy more like herself than she’d realized. If Ed was like (or _had been_ like) Roy, kindness and idealistic optimism wrapped in a sharp façade to protect a soft heart, then Al was like _her—_ calm, loyal, protective, and utterly, terrifyingly unafraid of doing whatever he deemed necessary to protect the people he loved. Even when—or perhaps especially when—that involved getting his hands dirty.

Riza knew damn well she couldn’t stop him if she tried, no matter how badly the scars of Ishval were screaming at her to keep another child from ending up with bloodied hands. This, she knew, was different—was _personal,_ same as it was for her and Roy. _More_ personal than it was for them, because the boy who’d let out that terrified, animal _scream_ had been the one person he’d allowed himself to rely on more than anything, and was the one person he had to protect above all.

She wrapped her hand around his broad one, Al’s soulfire eyes finding hers as she stared him down. “When we find the people who hurt him,” she said quietly (there was no if, there would _never_ be an if, because _she would find them),_ “we’ll take them together.” _And we’ll leave no one standing._

_Not after what they did to what is ours._

Al made a choked noise, the light in his eyes winking out as if he was closing them, tilting his head back against the wall. He stayed like that for a moment, and Riza stayed beside him, her hand in his, willing him to believe it—that it wasn’t his fault, that it wasn’t his responsibility, that it was (or would be) okay. That they would find a way to pay Ed’s torturers back the pain they were owed—that they would do it together, for the boy that was brother to him and son to her.

Red flared to life again after a heartbeat, and Al sighed, bowing his head. “Thank you, Riza,” he croaked after a moment—still weary, still aching, but his eyes were a little brighter as he peeked sideways at her.

The wound left by what his brother had become, what _he_ was becoming wasn’t healed yet—but she could tell it was a little softer, a little less all-consuming, a little less excruciating. That the gash deep within his soul was starting to heal over.

And for now, that was enough. “Anytime, Al.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alphonse Elric for Best Boy, Riza for Best Mom, and the other two members of this ramshackle little family for Absolutely Adorable But Also Disasters. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed it! I tried to touch a little more on that ruthless side of Al I've always wanted to see further emphasized, and on the similarities we see between him and Riza--that overwhelming protectiveness, that fury seething beneath the quiet. 
> 
> Once again, thanks for reading! Leave a comment and/or a kudos if you enjoyed it, and I'll see y'all with a new chapter next Tuesday! Bye~


	19. i won't stop until we're free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strong arms wrapped around him, like coiled iron under silk, and he choked on a sob as Winry pulled him into a hug. “I’m not going anywhere, you idiot.” Her voice was choked, halting, as if she were holding back tears of her own _(you made her cry, made her sad again, you can’t do anything right)._ “You’re stuck with me until the day we die. Someone’s gotta make sure your automail stays intact, right? Alchemy freak.”
> 
> _Alchemy freak._ Was he really an alchemy freak if he couldn’t do alchemy—couldn’t _read_ to do it, to learn about it, to better himself? Was he still an alchemist at all if he was—was _scared_ to use something that had been his passion and his greatest skill a year ago? 
> 
> _Does it…does it matter?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ED AND WINRY FEELS! I just had to write more of these two while I had the chance. It's more friendship than romance right now, for obvious reasons, but I wanted to shine a light on their relationship after Ed's rescue before we head back to East City.
> 
> Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken by P!nk

_Everyone_ seemed to want to fuss over Ed the next three days, no matter what he’d done or how childish he was being, and it was— _nice,_ and comforting, but slightly overwhelming all the same. The _amount_ of coddling and comfort (that he still didn’t _deserve,_ not really, not after running off and being such a stupid _brat)_ had somehow _increased_ from when they were at home (despite the threats of _talks_ in his future about the stunt he pulled before the surgery and—well, that was fair, given how upset he’d made everyone). They didn’t all do it at once— _couldn’t,_ because that would be ri—ridic— _silly_ and they all had more important things to do than look after him when he couldn’t do much more than sleep and scribble in his notebook and try to eat when they asked him to, but they somehow traded off and—and kept doing it for _all three days._

 Roy, he’d discovered, had carried him off to bed after the surgery (the metal of his shoulder still twinged painfully when he thought about it, so he tried really hard _not_ to) and fallen asleep while still hugging him. The nightmares had _hurt—_ physically _ached_ through the night, the whispers, the wildfire _panic_ (or maybe that was just the ache from the automail reattachment), but he’d woken up held warm and close and _safe_ for—for the first time since he was a _really_ little kid. Woken up feeling like he was _protected,_ like _They_ really _couldn’t_ touch him for the first time in _ages._ Feeling a little more… _human._

And when he’d dozed off again, he hadn’t had a single nightmare.

Riza was waiting when he woke up the second day, soothing him after a nightmare and holding a freshly-washed Ree out (she’d smelled _nice_ , like soap and lavender and a little bit of that gunpowder-and-black-tea smell that always reminded him of Riza) to him and calling him all sorts of nicknames that made him feel all safe and bright and glow-y inside. She’d taken his hand in hers without a hint of hesitation, and he’d clung to it and held Ree with the other hand (he could do that now—he could hold two things at once! He hadn’t realized that he’d really been _missing_ that until—until he held two things at once, he guessed) and had let him cling to her when a loud noise made him jump.

Al—Al and Winry had made _cookies_ yesterday _,_ and let him have _two of them._ He hadn’t had a chocolate chip cookie (or _any_ cookie) in—in a _whole year,_ and now he was allowed to have _two_ (and they didn’t try to make him drink milk with them!) for—for _breakfast,_ of all things. And Al didn’t laugh when his hands shook and he got crumbs and chocolate all over his face and Winry pulled his hair back in a ponytail with a blue elastic the same color of Ree’s fluff and it was just—it was _nice._ It was selfish, probably ( _definitely_ ) to accept the attention and the—the comfort, and the _kindness_ when he hadn’t earned it, but he was too weak to remind himself that he was _Bad_ and _poisonous,_ to remember that it was _his fault_ everyone had gotten upset in the first place, to ask for them to stop because he was supposed to be better, _stronger_ than this now. It had been a month— _more_ than a month—and he was still…like _this._ Broken, and fragile, and too far gone to be _fixed_ anymore.

Worst of all, maybe, was the fact that he was _homesick_ in a place that was _supposed_ to be his home—a place that the rare voice that sounded like Before-Ed reminded him _should be_ home, a place where Mom was buried and he and Al had been raised and where he’d made his first friends and spent most of his (really quite short) life. Homesick for something his old self would have sneered and laughed at him for—for his superior’s apartment, for the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling of the guest room that was sort of _his_ room. For the leather couch in the kitchen where he could sit and watch everyone and listen to the radio and know he wasn’t alone. For those stupid, childish curtains and the kitchen counters where he’d practice the alphabet and the view of the city outside his window. Now that he wasn’t ove—overwro— _crazed_ with panic, it really _did_ feel like a betrayal of Risembool…but he wanted to go back all the same.

_One more day,_ he reminded himself, hugging Ree tight to his chest and burrowing into the blankets Al had fetched for him from the spare guest room, burying himself deep enough within them that the terrifying _openness_ of—of _everything_ r—rece—went away a little bit. _One more day and then it’s back on the train and through the—the scary train station, but then it’s back home and you can go to sleep and you can stop feeling so stupidly homesick for a place that_ shouldn’t _be your home._

An arm suddenly draped over his back, and Ed jolted back, heart pounding in his chest as he buried his face in Ree’s belly. _Stop,_ he scolded himself, eyes burning as he tried and failed to hold the tears back, _it’s just—it’s just Al or Riza or Roy or—or_ somebody, _they’re not gonna hurt you, you idiot, you don’t—stop being so_ scared _all the time._ “I know that face,” a gentle voice remarked, and Ed squeaked as he was tugged against the warm side of… _Winry,_ it was Winry, _stopstopstop it’s just_ Winry _why are you getting_ upset. “What’s wrong?”

“N-nuh.” A frustrated whimper escaped, tugging painfully from his raspy throat (he hoped his cold wasn’t coming back; Riza and Roy would be really sad and upset and being sick was _icky_ and he hated it); _still can’t talk right still messing up hatethishatethishatethis wanna go_ home _._ He forced himself to uncurl a bit, the fingers of his flesh hand slipping into his mouth instinctively as he clung to Ree with the other, managing to meet Winry’s eyes. “N-nothin’,” he tried again, the word strange and warped around his fingers.  

Winry chuckled softly, blue eyes warm and bright (and _sad—_ she was getting better at hiding it, _everyone_ was, but it still _hurt_ because he _knew_ it was all his fault) and blue as the sky, _lightgoodsafe._ “Ed, I’ve known you for fifteen years. I know what your _shush-I’m-thinking_ face looks like.”

Ed couldn’t quite help the grumbling noise that poured from his throat, inching closer to her as the panic beating in his chest eased. She—she probably _did,_ given that it really _had_ been fifteen years (even if he didn’t—he didn’t always _feel_ like it anymore; he was so much smaller and weaker and _dumber_ and barely anything he did seemed to be helping at _all)_ and he didn’t even know he’d _had_ a shush-I’m-thinking face. “I—I d-don’t have—w-wasn’ _thinkin’,”_ he mumbled _._ “D-don’ have lotsa w-words to think w-with anymore.”

That sadness flared brighter in her eyes, and Ed curled up tighter, wishing he hadn’t spoken at all. _Upset her upset her you keep messing up you’re so_ stupid. “That doesn’t mean you’re not _thinking,_ silly,” she pointed out, adjusting the blankets around his shoulders with quick, sure hands. Ed could only admire the steadiness of them, especially given…well, given that he couldn’t hold things for long without his hands shaking or dropping them or _something_ bad happening. “Everything okay?”

Ed bobbed his head quickly, pulling his fingers from his mouth quickly— _why do you keep doing that, you have Ree so you_ don’t _do childish things like that, I shouldn’t be doing that anymore why aren’t I betterbetterbetter—_ and pulling his knees to his chest. “U-uh-huh, j-jus’—um…”

He furrowed his brow, chewing his lip nervously as he tried to find the words to describe the feelings swirling in his gut—the disappointment in himself, the hollow fear of _missing_ the apartment _(homehomehome),_ the knowledge that he _shouldn’t_ be missing the apartment because it wasn’t _supposed_ to be home, the ever-growing feeling that he really _was_ betraying Risembool, betraying Winry and Granny and Mom. “M-miss room,” he offered hesitantly; that was—that was innocuous enough, right? That didn’t sound like he was—was _abandoning_ Risembool.

Winry raised her eyebrows— _she knows, she knows, she knows—_ but a smile spread across her face, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Your room _is_ pretty awesome. Last time you called, you said—what, that you’d gotten a new shelf for…jars?”

Ed brightened at the reminder—a few days before they’d left for Risembool, Riza had put the books she and Roy liked to read him on the otherwise-empty bookshelf in his room. They’d started gathering pretty, colorful things to put next to the books, too, like little decorations: an old hourglass Roy had dug up with a strange lavender-ish glass that made it hard to see the sand, and an empty bottle of perfume that Riza had put seashells in from a time she visited the ocean long, long ago. His favorite so far, though, was the pretty blue jam jar Al had found and put fresh dandelions in, fetching new flowers for it right before they’d left so they would last until they came back (Ed was secretly hoping they could try and find some bluebells or something next time, so he could remember the color of Winry’s eyes a little better).

He felt…he felt a little like one of those birds that hoarded shiny things, felt fragile, full of hollow bones and small enough to be crushed in someone’s fist, but the colors, the lights—they _helped._ They were _strange,_ and red—red was still his _favorite_ (even if it sometimes reminded him of Them, of who he used to be and made him feel small and sick and frightened) but colors, _any_ colors that weren’t gray and black and brown and that static-y blur that had covered his vision and leeched it of color, reminded him that the cell was far, far away. That he’d _gotten_ _out._ That he was _still_ out, and that as long as he was there, _They_ could never get him.

“Y-yeah! It’s—s’r-really pretty. W-wanna get some—uh, like the l-lights ‘r-round the h-holidays.” He furrowed his brow, trying to piece the words together, swiping furiously at burning in his eyes when he couldn’t. _Don’tcrydon’tcrydon’tcry_. “D-dunno what t-they’re called.”

_Weak,_ a voice hissed, sickly-sweet and cold as death, and that fluttering hope-like thing in his chest stilled and died in its icy grip. _Weak, taking comfort in such childish things. Weak, letting such a small amount of suffering break you entirely. Weak, for bearing the burden of your own failures for so long and crumbling to such a pitiful little creature in the span of a_ year. _Weak, weak—weak and worthless weak and broken, what a stupid little brat—_

“Ed—hey, Ed, just breathe, okay?” Gentle, calloused hands wrapped around his— _two hands two hands you’re out you’re out you’re freefreefree They’d never let you have your arm you’re safesafesafe—_ and he sucked in a gasping breath, choking on a cough. Winry squeezed his hands firmly, one brushing lightly over his cheek; he jerked back with a whimper and _hated_ himself for it moments later. _Just Winry just Winry never gonna hurt you don’t be so_ stupid. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong, or should I get Al or the Colonel?”

No— _no,_ they’d dealt with his stupidity enough over the past few days (weeks, _months—_ no, _years,_ they’d been putting up with him when he was Before-Ed and _bad_ and now they were back to trying to take care of him and he kept _screwing up),_ they needed to stay away, to _rest._ “N-no, s’okay, I—j-jus’—” _Being dumb, being stupid, I’m sorrysorrysorry Winry._ He tugged his hands free of hers, thin, frail flesh arm trembling as he struggled for a moment against her strong grip, and pressed them to his chest with a whimper. _Hurtshurtshurts wanna go homehomehome._

“Home?”

Ed felt his blood turn to ice in his veins at the realization he’d spoken aloud, the chill weighing down on his chest like someone had lined his lungs and heart in iron and crushed him in a tomb of lead. Winry blinked at him, sky-blue eyes bright and bewildered—blue eyes that were still warm and happy and _gentle_ when she looked at him, like she still thought he was _good._ Eyes that he _knew_ would turn dark with hatred when she found out, kind, strong hands shoving him aside _(I deserve it I deserve it badbadbad traitor wanna go home where’s Al where’s Al),_ throwing him out like—like broken bits of scrap metal. Another whimper tore from his chest, aching and painful, and he buried his face in his hands with a whine as she stared at him. _All my fault._

 “Ed—hey, Ed, what’s wrong?” he heard her say as if from a great distance, echoing strangely _(he was in the cell again, he was trapped underground and he couldn’t seehearthinkbreathe)_. Calloused hands reached for his worriedly, fingers brushing against the terrible, awful ruined-brand burn scar across his skin; he jolted back with a frightened cry as a flare of old pain rushed through him, before shame squashed the fear, prickling at his chest like thorns. _Why are you being such a baby, it’s just Winry, it’s just—you’re so_ stupid.

He chewed at his lower lip, tears slipping down his cheeks as he forced his fingers apart enough to peek through them. Winry’s eyes were wide, confused and upset and _worried—abandoning her, said this wasn’t home, ruderuderude badbadbad sorry—_ even as she tried for a smile. “Did I—” she started, and Ed couldn’t help flinching as her voice broke over the words, as she swept a hand over her eyes _(made you sad I’m sorrysorrysorry)_. “Sorry. Did I scare you, Ed? I’m so sorry—”

“N-no!” Ed shook his head rapidly, eyes widening in horror; it wasn’t her fault, how could she think it was her fault? He was the one who—who’d gotten himself captured and hurt, who’d betrayed Risembool, who made her sad. “I—I jus’—didn’ m-mean to s-say that, W-Win, m’s-sorry, my f-fault, was a-an’ acciden’.” He squeezed his eyes shut, curling in on himself _(face hidden vitals protected safesafesafe)_ as he pressed his hands to his chest again. “S-sorry,” he repeated, feeling more helpless than ever, peeking anxiously up through his bangs.

Winry’s look of worry softened into something like relief, though the confusion still hovered at the edges of her face, the furrow in her brow. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry _for,”_ she said fiercely. She sounded so sure of herself that Ed knew she really _believed_ it, that she still thought he was—was _him_ , was that strong and brave person from a year ago (who’d been mean to everyone, even her, even when he didn’t mean it—who hadn’t flinched at shadows or cried at loud noises, who Ed kept trying and failing to be again). “I was the one who pried where I wasn’t supposed to. I was just…I didn’t understand what you said, really.” Ed swallowed back another whimper as she gently untangled his automail hand from his flesh one and wrapped her own around it. “You don’t have to explain if you don’t want to.”

_But you—you deserve_ something. He swallowed thickly, throat aching as he forced himself to lift his head, hesitantly shaking his bangs out of his face. _I’ve already said it so I gotta—I gotta own up to it and—that’s what good people do, and I wanna be—don’t wanna—no more hurt, pleasepleaseplease._ “S-should,” he croaked, squeezing his eyes shut. “S-s’not f-fair—t’you, or—or a-anyone, I—”

_“Ed.”_ Winry’s voice was firm, and he cracked one eye open warily, wishing the tears slipping down his face would _go away._ There was a bright, sharp light in her eyes, hard as the steel she worked with. “You owe _nothing_ to _anyone,_ understand? Not to me, or to Granny, or the Colonel or the Lieutenant. There’s no _should_ here; _you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”_ Her eyes crinkled at the corners slightly, some of the warmth seeping through the steel. “Simple as that.”

“B-but—” This didn’t make _sense,_ he wasn’t—he couldn’t—he wasn’t _allowed_ to keep things from people after saying them, that was a _lie_ and lying meant punishment, meant the Bar, meant cold and loneliness and whispers and nightmares, meant the blinding darkness of the cell and the terror of the monsters they would unleash. And if he didn’t speak, didn’t _tell the truth,_ They would— _They’ll find me._ “But i-it’s—traito—trai— _wrong_ an’ b-bad an’—like I’m a-abandoning e-everythin’—and _Mom_ an’ y-you and Granny an’ l-letting Al d-down.” The words bubbled up and out of his mouth frantically, desperate to stave off the punishment he _knew_ was coming, hands shaking. “I—g-gonna h-hate me, gonna _l-leave—” Don’t go don’t go don’t go pleasepleaseplease I know I’m not him I know I’m not what you wanted but please don’t leave—_

_Don’t leave me._

Strong arms wrapped around him, like coiled iron under silk, and he choked on a sob as Winry pulled him into a hug. “I’m not going anywhere, you idiot.” Her voice was choked, halting, as if she were holding back tears of her own _(you made her cry, made her sad again, you can’t do anything right)._ “You’re stuck with me until the day we die. Someone’s gotta make sure your automail stays intact, right? Alchemy freak.”

_Alchemy freak._ Was he really an alchemy freak if he couldn’t do alchemy—couldn’t _read_ to do it, to learn about it, to better himself? Was he still an alchemist at all if he was—was _scared_ to use something that had been his passion and his greatest skill a year ago?

_Does it…does it matter?_

Hesitantly, Ed returned the hug, burying his face in his best friend’s shoulder. She laughed, her voice thick with tears, the sound the same cackle he vaguely remembered teasing her about two years ago—a sound he’d tried to imagine for months and months in the cell and never quite remembered right, a sound he would’ve given anything to hear in the darkness of that inescapable _hell._ A sound that, more than anything, was _proof_ that he wasn’t going back— _couldn’t_ go back, that _They_ weren’t here and that none of the people who were here for him _now_ would _dream_ of hurting him. It was better proof than glass bottles and shimmering flowers and scraps of colorful glass, because those could be taken, broken, lost, but Winry…Winry was the strongest person he knew. Winry was _invincible._

And Winry would never leave him.

“P-promise, gearhead?” he rasped, squeezing his eyes shut—he knew the answer, but he still needed to _hear_ it. To be able to whisper it to himself when the nightmares were bad and no one, not even Al, could pull him out, when he felt more worthless and broken and useless than ever and nothing seemed to help. To _remember._

Winry laughed again, that ridiculous, wonderful cackle that made him remember the days when Risembool _had_ been home and he hadn’t known that reading and sunlight and the _sky_ could be taken from him, and held him closer. “Cross my heart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a fun one to write. I hope you guys enjoyed it! Please leave a comment and/or a kudos if you did (comments are like, nectar and ambrosia for writers), and don't be afraid ask me any questions you have! I'll see you all next Tuesday <3


	20. tears make kaleidescopes in your eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was this how Hughes felt _all the time,_ he wondered? The man never seemed anything less than perfectly confident, perfectly _suited_ to being a parent, ever and always adoring of his daughter no matter what. More than once, Roy had caught himself wondering why Hughes stayed in the military beyond simply supporting his family; a man of his skill (particularly with people) could easily find a job capable of supporting them all anywhere, and it had to be _terrifying_ to leave little Elicia behind every day, not knowing if he would make it back to her alive.
> 
> The guilt in his chest when he’d realized it might have been the promise his old friend made to him only intensified as he was sent hurtling into what was, essentially, fatherhood (or some approximation of it). Going back to work now—to being "Colonel Bastard" again, to being that irritating authority figure he was convinced Fullmetal had hated…it seemed as impossible as Ed going back to being _Fullmetal._ He was going to keep his vow, to climb the ranks, change the country from the inside, but he…he had another duty right now, another promise to keep, and this one steadily seemed to be eclipsing the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stand By You by Rachel Plattern
> 
> Roy does a little bit of soul-searching in this chapter, ponders the burden of pseudo-fatherhood, and wonders if he's worthy (which he is--not that he believes it, of course). Luckily, Ed is there to be both distraction and comfort!

The amount of tension that seemed to rush out of Ed as soon as they made it back to his apartment was…well, frankly _surprising_. Heartwarming and endearing and _adorable,_ yes, but also completely unexpected, given that—well, given _everything._ Given that Ed had once seemed to hate him and Roy had done nothing to stop that, given that they’d just _visited_ the place he knew Ed loved more than anywhere else in the world, given that East City in general was probably closest to wherever he’d been held captive and his apartment (even if it was now occupied by three—two? Could Ed even still do alchemy? —of the most dangerous alchemists in the world, along with _the_ best shot in the Amestrian military) was not the most secure place in the world. All of this, and yet…

 Al had carried a drowsy Ed as Roy brought in his old, battered suitcase along with his own, Riza watching with amusement as he attempted to hold them three different ways as he fished out his keys before finally offering to relieve him of his misery. She’d said something he couldn’t quite remember now—something teasing and openly affectionate and so utterly un-Hawkeye-ish that he’d gaped at her like they were children again and he still had that _ridiculous_ crush (which he didn’t have _now,_ obviously)—as they stepped over the threshold, and for a moment, all he’d been able to do was _stare_ at her (they looked exhausted and rumpled and ridiculous, they _both_ did, the train ride had felt particularly long and they’d all—except for Al—spent it sleeping, but somehow his poor, misinformed heart had skipped a beat anyway).

And then Al had yelped, and his attention had been immediately swept to the younger Elric as he just _barely_ managed to avoid dropping his suddenly wide-awake brother. Ed had only managed to get a pleading whine out before somehow scrambling free of Al’s arms, nearly overbalancing as he stumbled forward—and curled up on that small leather couch by the kitchen, the fragmented whimpers tugging free of his throat dying down into a sigh of palpable _relief._

Roy had worried—and wasn’t _that_ terrifying and wonderful and shocking in itself, that he _worried_ over the boy that had once been Fullmetal, that he so frantically, desperately tried to protect him, that he found himself ready to jump to his defense at a moment’s notice (he still hadn’t recovered from the overwhelming, heart-stopping terror of waking up to Al gasping that his brother was gone)—that he was in pain, that Ed had been hurt and hadn’t told them, had somehow managed to successfully _hide_ it from them (stupid, given that Ed was, emotionally speaking, an open book now). Al, though, had just laughed, sounding just as relieved. “Glad to be home, Ed?”

Ed hadn’t said a word in reply, had simply blinked up at them with those huge, ever-so-sad golden eyes (God, this kid really had _no idea_ how whipped they all were for him, did they?), looking completely and utterly content—before settling back against the cushions with a sigh and promptly falling asleep. As though he _hadn’t_ dozed all through the train ride and the brief drive back to the apartment, hadn’t managed to actually _sleep_ properly the night before.

Two days had passed since then, and Roy was _still_ overwhelmed by how absolutely _adorable_ that moment had been. He found himself wishing he’d had a camera to capture the moment—golden eyes glazed over with a strange, peaceful satisfaction, the way he’d curled up beneath Riza’s gentle touch as she draped a blanket over him and tucked Ree more securely into his arms, how he’d instinctively left just enough room for Al to settle down beside him—and immediately shuddered, shaking his head with a snort. _You’re going to be as bad as Hughes if this keeps up,_ he scolded himself, glancing over at where Ed was perched on the edge of the counter, listening raptly to some radio serial he’d put on so the kid would have something to listen to as he washed dishes. _Honestly, you’re getting way too attached._

He paused a second later, before snorting in amusement and returning to his task. “That ship’s already sailed, Mustang,” he muttered to himself. “Any _more_ attached and you’ll be adopting those boys.” Which, he realized with a dizzying sort of horror (and something like _hope,_ almost, golden and bright and fizzing in his chest), he _would,_ given half a chance. He was already _at that point._ The only things stopping him were the paperwork—which, ignoring the fact that paperwork was generally his worst enemy, would immediately be within the eyes of the military, who would _know_ Edward Elric was alive (and not well at all)—and the choice of the boys themselves. He’d take them in a heartbeat, but Ed was in no place to make such life-changing (or potentially so, at least) decisions right now and Al wouldn’t do anything without ensuring it was okay by Ed.

And holy _shit,_ was that realization terrifying. That he would come to care for them so much, that he’d done so as _quickly_ as he did—it was overwhelming, and rewarding, and absolutely petrifying all at once. Parenting (oh, God, that was what he was doing, wasn’t it? He was _parenting._ He was _being a parent,_ what the fuck, _what the fuck)_ was _never_ something he’d seen himself doing, or really _wanted_ to do, even—well, even before Ishval. He liked kids well enough, but there had been so much else he’d rather be doing. Then Ishval had happened, and he no longer trusted himself _not_ to hurt them, no longer trusted that the shards of glass and ever-burning wildfires that made up his soul would spare them, no longer thought he had the _right_ to care for anyone like that after killing so many innocents. So many _children._

Yet here he was, staying home from a job he’d dedicated his life to in order to look after his hurt, traumatized former subordinate and his heartbroken little brother, and almost… _enjoying_ it. Feeling stupidly _fulfilled_ by it, even if it was absolutely the most nerve-wracking thing he’d ever done in his _life._

Was this how Hughes felt _all the time,_ he wondered? The man never seemed anything less than perfectly confident, perfectly _suited_ to being a parent, ever and always adoring of his daughter no matter what. More than once, Roy had caught himself wondering why Hughes stayed in the military beyond simply supporting his family; a man of his skill (particularly with people) could easily find a job capable of supporting them all anywhere, and it had to be _terrifying_ to leave little Elicia behind every day, not knowing if he would make it back to her alive.

The guilt in his chest when he’d realized it might have been the promise his old friend made to him only intensified as he was sent hurtling into what was, essentially, fatherhood (or some approximation of it). Going back to work now—to being “Colonel Bastard” again, to being that irritating authority figure he was convinced Fullmetal had hated…it seemed as impossible as Ed going back to being _Fullmetal._ He was going to keep his vow, to climb the ranks, change the country from the inside, but he…he had another duty right now, another promise to keep, and this one steadily seemed to be eclipsing the other.

 _You’re awful._ He shut his eyes, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder at Ed—long hair left loose, eyes unusually alert for once, Ree held in his lap as he listened intently and hummed along with the theme song the serial played—as he set the plate aside. Resisted the urge to glance at Al, cheerfully tidying up the remains of their lunch, for once left in a genuinely good mood rather than a façade of strength and happiness to protect his big brother. _You planned to use them for so long—you took them to use as_ tools, _a couple more blades to wield—if you hadn’t, this wouldn’t have_ happened, _and maybe Ed would have reached the possibility of the Stone on his own, or they would both be living out their days in Risembool and he_ wouldn’t be like this. _This is your fault, you’re the catalyst that set all of this off—and you have the nerve to get_ attached _to them? To give a shit about them now, and not before?_

“Shut up,” he muttered halfheartedly to himself, opening his eyes and grabbing another dish, scrubbing it with perhaps a little more vigor than necessary. Those frustrating, infuriating, venomous voices were _right,_ of course; he pushed them down (he had no desire to sink into some kind of breakdown at the kitchen sink, especially not with Ed and Al right there and without Riza to distract them while he excused himself to some quiet corner to grieve and stew in the self-loathing), but he had to acknowledge that, at least. He had no right to care for them, to—to _love them._

 _Love._ Was that what this was? It didn’t feel like he’d thought it would; everything he’d read, everything he’d heard had described a parent’s love as a soft, warm balm, something decidedly _gentle._ This…this strange _feeling_ in his chest whenever he looked at the Elrics, whenever he saw Ed talking quietly to Ree in that tiny, fragile voice of his as though she was a real person, whenever he found Al slipping out of Ed’s room at night to grab more alchemy books from his study and pore over them as though they could fix everything, was _not._ It was overwhelming and ferocious, a creature of claws and fangs and fire living in his chest, rising and roaring so loud he could barely hear anything else when they were upset, when Ed was frightened or Al was grieving or both trying and failing to cope with their new reality. It was terrifyingly wild, crashing over him without heed of logic or rules or all the things that governed the life of an alchemist. It was _nothing_ like the stories said it was—and yet there was no other word for it, no _better_ word for it.

He’d…he’d come to love them like his own children, even with all the pain he’d caused them, even knowing that he’d set off the chain of events that led to this, that he had no right to care for them. That there was no reason Ed should trust him so implicitly, that _Al_ should trust him with the person he loved most in the world. That they both should hate him, despise him—and somehow _didn’t._ Worst of all was the fact that he sometimes saw that terrifying, _overwhelming_ adoration, that—that _love_ reflected back in Ed’s gaze, in his _actions,_ when he clung to him or shyly asked him for help or trusted him to help him bathe.

Ed loved him. Hell, _Al_ had come to love him, too, if the way he trusted both him and Riza without hesitation was anything to go by. These two fragile, broken souls were clinging to him as one of the only sort of parental figures they could trust right now—trusting the _worst possible person_ for the job. Trusting someone who had _murdered_ children their age, murdered thousands, whose hands were drenched in blood and twisted into claws. It would be so easy—too easy, terrifyingly easy—to hurt them, to sink those claws into their hearts and rip them out. To snap his fingers and watch that trust burn away to fear and betrayal and _pain_ , to scream into the emptiness of his own mind as he watched these two children (his children, _his children)_ die by his own hand.

The hand of a murderer—once again with the eyes to match. Two more innocent souls added to that eternal pyre, made all the worse for his personal attachment to them. He’d gone into this thinking he’d be able to stay a commanding officer, a supportive-but-stern force in their lives—and then he’d spent exactly one night hearing Ed scream and sob and wail at everything and nothing, had thrown himself into comforting and protecting him (as if it would bring him some kind of salvation, as though it were _penance—_ a terrible, selfish thing, true, but he was a terrible, selfish person) and had gotten sucked in so deep that he could never be “just a commanding officer” again. His intent to guard and care had gone from simple obligation to a vortex of emotion, most prominent among them that roaring monster called _love._

And there was no taking it back. Not without breaking the hearts of the two broken boys in his kitchen…and his own along with it.

_Selfish._

A rustle to his left made him glance over—and he barely resisted the urge to jolt back as he found Ed there, golden eyes wide and full of worry as he peered up at him. _What—wait, wasn’t he just—how did he get down?_ A whirlwind of scenarios began to chase each other through his mind, all of the terrible things that could have happened to Ed in the brief span of time between when he’d sunken (foolishly, _selfish again)_ into his own mind and when the quiet motion from the kid had drawn his attention. Half of them were impossible, a quarter unrealistic, and yet all of them kept worsening and worsening as they darted through his mind. Was this how Hughes felt whenever Elicia did _anything?_ God, he had to send that man _something_ as an apology for all the times he mocked his protectiveness.

“U-upset?” There was a tug on his sleeve, and Roy cursed his wandering mind, shaking his head as though he could shake off the thoughts. Ed’s flesh fingers (scarred—scarred by _burns,_ no less, how could he stand to be around Roy at _all?)_ tightened in his sleeve as those achingly melancholic eyes searched his face worriedly. “Y-you—l-look sad. S-scared—uh—like b-before the b-bath?”

His brow furrowed adorably, lower lip poking out in a subconscious pout. Some horrifically Maes-like part of Roy wanted to coo at it, while the rest was…quite frankly _amazed_ at that fact that Ed actually _remembered_ that first day, remembered how Roy had been overwhelmed by the pyre in his mind before. The amazement was quickly quashed by guilt and self-loathing, smothering it into silence. _He shouldn’t be worrying about me, remembering that—he’s got enough to deal with, he’s already in so much pain_ all the time _and I can’t—oh, God, Ed, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._

“I’m okay, sweetheart,” he managed, pulling a smile back into place as Ed stared up at him. “Don’t worry about me, alright?” _God knows I don’t deserve it._

Ed frowned, looking utterly unconvinced, before huffing quietly and tugging again at the cloth of his sleeve. “H-hair messy,” he complained, his voice _tiny—_ so small, so _fragile,_ especially compared to the howl of the boy that seemed a thousand times bigger than he was, whose personality and deadly intellect made up for what he lacked in height. Without that confidence, that spark, that intelligence, he was frail and fragile and _small_ in more ways than one, and in desperate need of protection that Roy was terrified of failing to provide. “B-braid, please?”

Metal fingers pulled none-too-gently on a lock of gold hair, long enough now that it nearly reached the middle of his back when left loose like this. They’d offered to cut it—well, no, Roy had been the only one to offer, wondering if he could avoid getting two bottles of shampoo and conditioner to undo the snarling tangles—but Ed had immediately panicked, screaming and curling up into a little ball, as though burying his face in his knees could block out all the terrible things that had been done to him, the terrible things he thought would still _happen._ Roy swallowed thickly at the memory, setting down the second-to-last plate and ruffling Ed’s hair gently with his free hand. “Sorry, buddy, but I have to finish the dishes. I bet Al—”

“I’ve got the dishes,” Al interrupted, cheerfully shunting Roy aside before he could protest, Ed’s previous attempts to pull him along utterly unsuccessful given the kid’s state. “Besides, you know how Ed’s hair gets if it’s left loose like that all the time—tangled and messy and then it takes _ages_ to brush and then it just gets all tangled up again after bath time.” Soulfire eyes glinted with mischief as Al picked up the plate Roy had set down, ignoring his feeble attempt to grab for it again. “Wouldn’t it be best to just do it now?”

“N-now,” Ed agreed, widening his eyes innocently, his lower lip quivering just the slightest bit—and doing so _deliberately_.

Roy had to blink to make sure he was processing it correctly. The brothers were tag-teaming him—had noticed that something was up, and were working together in the most infuriatingly clever of ways to pull him out of it, the same way he’d once seen them work out complex equations and theories or new battle strategies. Not only that, but Ed—oh, God, Ed was _weaponizing his cuteness._ Was using it to pull Roy away and distract him, _knowing_ it would work on him; he’d probably feel guilty about it an apologize in that shy, stammering way he did on good days (it was a thousand times better than those half-sobbed, frantic apologies, than the way he’d claw at whoever was holding him and cling to them and _scream_ as if _begging_ them to believe him, not to hurt him), but…all Roy could feel right now was _pride._

“Fine,” he sighed, deliberately exaggerating his exasperation, making sure to only throw his free am up in the air so Ed wouldn’t be sent flying across the kitchen. “Fine! You win, you terrible little mongrels with your adorable eyes, I’ll do it. Ed, where’s your hair-tie and brush?”

Ed brightened immediately, beaming up at him and bouncing up and down on his toes for a second before shooting a triumphant look at Al and trotting off, Roy following behind him. He could’ve sworn the armor _winked_ at him as he turned to finish the dishes from lunch—but then Ed was pulling him along to the old guest room, now so irrevocably _Ed’s_ with its bookshelf stocked with colorful trinkets and ceiling of stars, and he let himself be nudged into the cushy armchair that Al usually occupied as the boy that had once been the Fullmetal Alchemist snatched up his hairbrush (a smooth, lovely wooden one he was convinced once belonged to Riza) and a bright red ribbon (a gift from Winry that he absolutely adored) and settled down in front of him.

Golden eyes peeked out from under long bangs for a moment, looking suddenly solemn, before Ed passed him both brush and ribbon and turned his head so Roy could attack the veritable _mane_ that awaited him. And attack it—well, _gently,_ of course; it was a good day, but that didn’t mean Ed was any less fragile physically today—Roy did, separating it neatly into three parts after he finished brushing it out.

The task managed to do what the dishes hadn’t quite managed—quieted the cacophony of the pyre in his mind, the dread that clutched at his chest. Maybe, he wondered absently, careful pulling Ed’s hair into a loose braid, it was because Ed was here—here, in front of him, alive and safe despite his suffering, alive and trusting him with his back like it was nothing. Roy knew thousands of ways to kill people, to make them _hurt,_ and yet Ed trusted him to keep him safe—to provide a safe haven from that pain.

It was still terrifying. It would probably _always_ be terrifying. But being needed for something, _trusted_ for something beyond alchemy and killing, beyond taking lives and burning worlds…it reached some part of him he’d believed dead, woke it up and made him feel _whole._ He hadn’t even realized that the emptiness inside him _existed_ until now, and yet here were the Elric brothers, trusting him like it was nothing at all. Like it was as easy as breathing.

Roy had chosen long ago not to break that trust unless it was necessary. He knew now that he would never let himself break it at _all._

“Thank you,” he said quietly, hands still steadily working through the braid as Ed let out a quiet, contented little hum. He grabbed the ribbon and tied it off neatly, muscles remembering what his brain tried to forget (summer days spent with a wild girl with eyes like molasses and a smile stained strawberry, running down to the village to escape Berthold Hawkeye’s stifling house, leaning up against the wall of a bakery to laugh together as some poor sap they’d tricked thundered past in embarrassment). “For…everything, Ed.”

Ed glanced over his shoulder at him, aureate eyes unreadable—before clambering up into the armchair and worming himself into the tiny bit of space between Roy’s leg and the arm of the chair; Roy moved aside for him instinctively, letting Ed curl into his side with a catlike yawn (it was naptime, then, he realized with amusement; he’d ignored the usual after-lunch nap to listen to the serial and now he was drowsy and _adorable)._ He chuckled quietly despite himself, wrapping a gentle arm around his shoulders. _Remind me to write Hughes an apology letter…and ask where he got that portable camera._

“G-gave me a h-home.”   

It took Roy a second to realize Ed was talking; he glanced down, blinking in surprise as sleep-riddled golden eyes gazed up at him in absolute sincerity. “W-was scared—s-still scared, a-an’—a-an broken—” he shook his head before Roy could protest the “broken” part, a stubborn glint in his eyes “—an’ being d-dumb, an’ y-you didn’t c-care—y-you _helped._ S-stayed.” Ed worried at his lip a moment before adding, “D-didn’ t-think I w-was worthless without—w-without, um, a-alchemy.” He stumbled over the word, blanching as he said it before huddling into his side again. “S-sorry.”

Roy could only _stare_ for a moment—stare, and remember what Al had said when Ed had stumbled over to that leather couch and fallen asleep there, sound so fond and yet…sad: _Glad to be home, brother?_

He’d thought it was a joke. He hadn’t considered that Ed…that Ed would really consider this _home._

_But he does. He does, and he trusts you and Riza nearly as much as he trusts Al._

Roy swallowed thickly, blinking back the sudden pressure pricking at his eyes as the room blurred around him. “Don’t be,” he rasped finally, wrapping his arms around the boy and pulling him into his lap. “You…you gave me a home too, Ed.” _You turned this place into one before I could even realize it—before you even realized it. You reminded me what it was like to be human, to protect people on that soul-deep level. And that’s…that’s something I can never thank you enough for._ “Get some rest, okay, buddy?”

 Ed yawned again, and Roy caught himself humming quietly as the boy— _his son—_ rested his head over his heart, eyes drifting closed. “’K-kay,” he whispered, his voice so soft he could barely hear a word. “N-night, Roy.”

Roy closed his eyes, and silently thanked whatever force had the sense and grace and capacity for forgiveness of his terrible sins to send Edward Elric to him, before resting his chin atop the boy’s head. “Sweet dreams, Ed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually really proud of this chapter! It gave me a chance to dig into the psyche of a character other than Ed, and I hope I did Roy justice. And I hope you guys enjoyed Ed learning to use his cuteness to his advantage! It'll happen a little more often as his confidence increases ;)
> 
> Thank you guys for reading! Please leave a comment and/or a kudos if you enjoyed it, and I'll see you next week!


	21. we'll have the days we break, and we'll have the scars to prove it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was what they’d signed up for, though—she and Roy had sold their souls to the devil without realizing it, had fought and survived with the knowledge that the price of those souls was the ability to change things, to make sure others didn’t end up doing the same. It was a trade they’d made without ever _dreaming_ that they might come to care for a child so much—a child so lonely and frightened and sad that leaving him behind felt like a knife to the chest, his tears like drops of acid burning through her heart, his smile like light and love and trust personified—and now they were suffering for it. Worst of all, _Ed_ was going to suffer for it, and there was nothing either of them could do without derailing everything they’d worked for.
> 
>  _“Yes,”_ she’d said, and hated herself for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marchin' On by OneRepublic.
> 
> We've got it all in this chapter! Riza introspection, hints of Royai, and some Mama Hawk to top it all off! The song linked above is one of the best possible for this fic, I think, and for Royai as a whole. Give it a listen; I think you'll enjoy it!

Riza had known that the day was going to be an absolute disaster from the second she got the message, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that things were going to get even worse before the day was over. Which, of course, most people would think would be _impossible_ after the day she’d just had, but her instincts were one of the few things she still trusted, and they were all ringing like alarm bells.

The morning—late night, really—had been a slow one; everyone directly under Colonel Mustang’s command (and, by extension, hers) had settled in for an all-nighter. Falman and Havoc continued assisting her with the search for Ed’s captors (which wasn’t going well; she knew they had to be in the city, given that Edward clearly had been no shape to have run particularly far when Roy found him, and that Ed had been kept underground, which meant there had to be a basement, but other than that…well, she had nothing), reviewing maps of the city and surrounding areas, any buildings relatively near where they’d found Ed. They didn’t know how long he’d been running or hiding or how long it had taken him to get out of the “cell” he kept mentioning, which might have narrowed down the selection of possible buildings a bit, but he was in no place to answer any of their questions about that night (or the rest of his captivity, for that matter).

Fuery and Breda tackled as many of the other assignments given to their office as they could, reports and paperwork and forms and things Riza _knew_ she should be doing or bringing back to Roy for him to work on, but…well, one thought about how fragile Ed had become, and the importance of those routine assignments had withered to nothing. Occasionally she would hear the ringing of a telephone and murmurs from within the offices and realize that they’d called Roy to ask his advice, and guilt would flare up again, but it always died when he called her asking for updates and sharing some of his own—not updates on the case, but on _Ed,_ on whether it was a good day or a bad one or in between, on something he’d learned about the kid, something sweet and selfless and _heartbreaking_ that he’d tried to do.

This time, though, she’d had to be the one to call him—because a state of emergency had been called in a farming village in the east ( _not Risembool,_ thank God, she’d checked as soon as the call had come in and hadn’t been able to smother the flicker of relief in her chest), the kind that took an alchemist to handle. And with the Fullmetal Alchemist believed to be dead or worse ( _ha,_ they were almost right on both accounts—the boy they knew was certainly dead, and he’d spent the entire year in a situation that could only be classified as “or worse”), the handful of others scattered far across the nation (Armstrong and Beckett had been her first thoughts when the order came through, but Armstrong was in Central and Beckett was in the middle of the western conflict) or left too unsuited to combat to handle it (Tucker, though near, barely even qualified as a State Alchemist any longer), Colonel Roy Mustang was their only option.

She’d relayed as much to Roy when she’d called him, when he’d made those same suggestions for alternatives. Despite how much she wished there was _something,_ there had been no alternatives, no one suited to taking down insurgents without civilian casualties who was within reach. Either way, the Flame Alchemist and the Hawk’s Eye were vital to the success of this mission—and, most importantly, to the least amount of lives lost.

_“So I have to go.”_

It hadn’t been a question, hadn’t been a plea. The words were coated thickly in resignation, but she could hear the worry buried deep within them—the same worry that pulsed in her chest when she thought of the ghost of a boy quietly trying to put the broken pieces of himself back together. There was no one they trusted more than Al to take care of him, of course, but Al was still _fourteen,_ and Ed was still so _fragile_ , so easily broken beyond repair, and there was no telling how long this mission might take. With the two of them leading it, it likely wouldn’t be much longer than three days at most, but three _minutes_ had been enough to lose Ed for a year. With everyone they trusted either out of reach or attending to the mission, there would be no one to alert them if something happened, no way for them to be reached if something went wrong.

And there were oh, so many things that could go wrong. So many ways that Ed could get hurt, so many things that could set him off, shatter the scraps of himself that he’d managed to gather back up into dust. So many ways that Al could be overwhelmed, trapped in that apartment with no one to talk to and no one to rely on but himself. Leaving them alone felt like a recipe for disaster in and of itself, and then add in the fact that (despite this sort of assignment being fairly routine, given their histories) there was a chance either she or Roy could be hurt or killed out there, that walking out that door meant there was a chance they wouldn’t be able to come back to their—their _son (as good as,_ her mind whispered fiercely)…the thought of death taking her, making her abandon him, was frightening enough to her. She could only _imagine_ how terrifying it would be for Ed to watch them walk out that door. How much it would break him if they never came back.

This was what they’d signed up for, though—she and Roy had sold their souls to the devil without realizing it, had fought and survived with the knowledge that the price of those souls was the ability to change things, to make sure others didn’t end up doing the same. It was a trade they’d made without ever _dreaming_ that they might come to care for a child so much—a child so lonely and frightened and sad that leaving him behind felt like a knife to the chest, his tears like drops of acid burning through her heart, his smile like light and love and trust personified—and now they were suffering for it. Worst of all, _Ed_ was going to suffer for it, and there was nothing either of them could do without derailing everything they’d worked for.

 _“Yes,”_ she’d said, and hated herself for it.

She’d known as soon as Roy showed up (it felt almost s _trange_ seeing him in uniform after so long, seeing him as _Colonel Mustang_ rather than simply _Roy,_ her superior officer instead of the grown version of the boy she’d been utterly infatuated with when they were both children) that the parting hadn’t gone well. His eyes had been red-rimmed, his look of grim determination a mask for the grief and worry that hovered just beneath the surface. He’d shaken his head at her when she dared to ask about “their old friend” (there had been too many soldiers around them to speak plainly, no matter how badly she wanted to rush to the nearest phone and call his apartment to hear Ed’s voice and know for sure that he was safe), his eyes weighed down by guilt as they’d set off—the mirror of the guilt she felt weighing down her chest.

They’d been briefed once more on the objective of the mission as they’d moved out, one of the trains that led directly to the East City base moving them as close to the captured village as possible. More than once, she’d had to shake herself into focus, thoughts drifting to the endless number of things that could go wrong both at home and on the battlefield. It was dangerous, thinking like that. Focusing on the innumerable opportunities for death, failure, _worse_ —those would lead _to_ death and failure, and those two things were _exactly_ what she needed to avoid.

Insurgents, they’d told her and Roy on the train, handing over the files. Not particularly highly trained, but they were insane and ruthless and numerous enough to take an entire village hostage. Several of them had barricaded themselves and the children of the villagers into the local schoolhouse and were threatening to kill them if their demands weren’t heard. Letting children die was unacceptable ( _ha, as if you haven’t killed dozens, hundreds, thousands of children, as if you aren’t_ drowning _in innocent blood, as if you_ didn’t _let them turn you into a monster, desensitize you to that bloodshed),_ but so was acquiescing to the demands of terrorists.

 _Which is why we need you,_ they’d said—mostly to Roy, but to her as well. _We need people who can handle large numbers of enemies with precision and ensure that the hostages come to the least possible amount of harm—preferably none, of course, but there are too many variables to know for sure._ Their eyes had been desperate despite the coolness of their tone. _Lethal force is authorized, but the main objective is to simply take them out and free the hostages._

And, well, they hadn’t really had a choice, had they? Not with the lives of innocent children on the line, lives they could save instead of take. Lives they _needed_ to save, if only for their own peace of mind, to assure them that leaving Ed alone had been worth it. And maybe…maybe to work out a bit of the pent-up aggression, the frustration she felt whenever she saw Ed shatter into nothing, when she saw him cry in fear or cling desperately to her arm, wordless and terrified of shadows they couldn’t name. After so long spent trying to protect the boy from his own mind, so long spent chasing ghosts to try and grant him some infinitesimal measure of peace, having an enemy she could actually _fight…_ it was refreshing, to say the least.

When they’d arrived, Riza had taken position in the highest spot in town, perched atop an old, decrepit clocktower that the insurgents hadn’t bothered with (the first clue, she’d thought with a vicious sort of glee, that they were _idiots)._ She’d watched as Roy slipped his gloves on and _winked_ up at her (from that far away, it was hard to see the grief and worry hovering just beneath the façade—or perhaps it had vanished entirely behind that cold, deadly _focus_ that crystallized their minds in battle) before raising his hands as if in surrender and heading into the barricaded schoolhouse. They didn’t seem to recognize him at all—the second sign that they were fools, and utterly unprepared for the sheer _hell_ about to be unleashed upon them.

A _snap,_ and the yells started to echo, along with terrified screams from the kids that set Riza’s blood to boiling. Another, and the doors burst open, those who hadn’t been disarmed by the Flame Alchemist’s deadly precision fleeing out the doors— _as if that’ll save them,_ Riza remembered thinking savagely, picking them off one by one by one, every target falling under her expert eye and quick fingers. She’d had to remind herself occasionally that lethal force was unnecessary, that she didn’t _need_ to go for the kill, but that deadly satisfaction brought a grim smile to her face as gunfire and flames brought them down—without a single scratch on the hostages.

The hostages, who were in tears, terrified, fleeing into their parents’ arms as she watched from above. That satisfaction ebbed away to horror as she realized how _young_ they were, not a single one of them older than ten, small and sobbing as they were reunited. _They could have died—if anything went wrong, they could have_ died—

 _I know how you feel,_ she found herself thinking as she gazed at the parents, clinging desperately to their children, trembling and holding back tears of their own as they tried to comfort them. _I have a child who was taken, too, and it hurts—I know it hurts, not being able to fix this for them, to make things better like parents are supposed to. I know—God, I know._

The military flooded back in as she eased herself upright again, bagging the dead and taking the living into custody, letting the ache of her muscles flood through her for a moment before she pushed it down again and started to rise to her feet—to pack up, to go home to Ed and tell him that everything was _fine,_ they’d made it back to him alive and they _always would,_ that death would never take them from him—

And then a shot had rung out, and she’d watched in horror as Roy howled in pain and dropped to one knee. Watched as the civilians, who’d clearly thought themselves safe, screamed and scattered. Watched as the military sprang upon and subdued the one insurgent she apparently hadn’t taken down hard enough, the one with just enough strength to lift his gun and shoot her superior officer. To shoot the man she’d sworn to protect with her life, to follow into hell. The man who’d trusted her with his back.

She’d failed in her duty—not her duty to the military, but to the man who’d sworn his life to hers, to the country they would build. He wouldn’t blame her, she knew, but it didn’t lessen her blame of herself. She should have known, should have _seen_ it. She should have done something better—done _more—_

_I’m supposed to never miss a shot, and yet when it matters most…when it matters most, I let the people I care for most suffer._

The wound, thankfully, looked worse than it was; it hadn’t hit anything vital or particularly damaged any important tendons in his leg. She’d kept silent vigil beside him as the bullet was removed and the wound cleaned and bandaged, rolled her eyes when he tried to joke about her “bedside manner” in that far-too-jaunty way she knew meant he was trying to convince her it was his mistake and not her lack of vigilance that had caused this, engaged halfheartedly in their usual banter—and protested just as loudly as him when the medic said that he was to be taken to East City’s military hospital and kept at least one night for treatment and observation.

That had earned some particularly confused looks—after all, she was usually the one convincing Roy that yes, he had to follow the doctor’s orders, and no, it wouldn’t kill him to not be able to fight for twenty-four hours, and besides, he could do _so much paperwork_ while there (which resulted in much melodrama on his part, of course)—but she didn’t care at all, practically vibrating with agitation. Ed would _immediately_ assume the worst if she returned without him, wouldn’t be convinced that Roy was alive and okay and really coming back until he was _there._ He needed to at least _see_ him, hear him—but they couldn’t say that. They couldn’t say anything at all.

And so Riza was returning alone—without the military escort the officer in charge of the mission had tried to insist on sending with her, thankfully; she’d told them in no uncertain terms as soon as the man was out of earshot that she did _not_ need them attending to her (as if she _needed_ to be attended to) and they were to go back to the dorms and get some much-needed rest. They’d obeyed—reluctantly, worriedly (she suspected they were scared of getting chewed out for disobeying their original orders, but exhaustion and fury and a strange, pulsing need to _go home_ must have made her scarier than him), but they were gone now, leaving her in front of the apartment with Roy’s spare key in hand.

 _I’m home,_ she thought, and closed her eyes for a moment, swaying unsteadily as she let the exhaustion she’d been battling with all day crash over her. God, she wanted to just collapse and sleep for a month, a week, a _year—_ but more importantly, she wanted to see the kid. _Her kid,_ or as good as, a kid she found herself aching to hug and comfort and hold again. For a moment, she forgot the feeling that the worst was yet to come, forgot the unease bubbling beneath the heavy blanket of exhaustion in her chest—forgot everything but the boy behind the door.

“I’m home,” she whispered, and unlocked the door, pulling it open—

A blur of gold crashed into her, and she rocked back on her heels with a choked gasp as the air was stolen from her lungs, arms instinctively coming up to cradle the trembling creature that clung to her now, sobbing wordlessly. Al stumbled into view a moment later, choking on a cry of “Brother, no!” before he caught sight of her. Immeasurable relief seemed to run through the armor as his shoulders slumped, a shaky exhale escaping him. “R-Riza—you’re back, thank God—”

“I’m back,” she agreed dazedly, adjusting her hold on Ed as he buried his face in her shoulder and cried, fingers knotted in her uniform jacket so tightly that she wondered if he thought she’d dissolve into smoke if he let go. Her heart twisted painfully in her chest, swelling and shattering as she rubbed his back soothingly. He pressed desperately into the touch, whimpering audibly before pulling back enough to look up at her, gold eyes wide and frightened and wet with tears.

He looked…terrified. Terrified and utterly _broken,_ wild-eyed and clinging to her with a sort of desperation she only saw after his worst nightmares. His sobs were hoarse, rasping painfully from his throat as she held him, as though he’d been crying ( _or screaming,_ Riza thought, and dread and guilt filled her lungs, weighed down her veins with lead and iron, _why did she leave him she should have said no this was all her fault_ ) all day.

She felt tears start to prick painfully at her own eyes, her vision blurring, and she hugged him closer, squeezing her eyes shut. Her hands were trembling, she knew—knew and didn’t _care,_ because she’d _hurt her child,_ made him suffer because of her, and she wanted so badly to just hold him close and _rest_ with him, that unease and agitation that had been humming under her veins like lightning all day finally dissipating. “Oh, _solnyshko,”_ she croaked, and Ed trembled, a thin, wobbly whine escaping him. “I’m so sorry.” _Sorry for leaving you alone, for taking Roy from you, for scaring you—I’m so, so sorry._

Ed just buried his face in her shoulder again, and she forced her eyes to open, forced them to meet Al’s. He looked helpless, shuffling awkwardly—how could she have tried to pass this off on him, he was _fourteen,_ he was _not_ equipped to deal with this—and she tried for a smile. It fell flat, wobbled unnaturally, but—well, it was _something._ “I’m sorry,” she repeated, willing him to understand that this apology belonged to _him._ “I shouldn’t have left you both alone. I know it was hard—” she didn’t know _how_ hard, but if Ed’s wordless crying and clinginess and Al’s utterly overwhelmed expression were anything to go by, it had been one of their worst days “—and Roy and I should have found a way around it, and—I’m so _sorry.”_

Al’s eyes flared with worry, Ed’s whimpers dying down as he shook his head wildly. “No—it’s not your fault, Riza, we both—you and Roy have work to do, you had people to help, and we don’t want you _not_ to help people! But we were—I was—”

“S-scared,” Ed choked out, his voice absolutely _tiny._ He didn’t lift his head from her shoulder, another sob pulling from his chest as she murmured and rubbed his back soothingly. His tongue seemed to slip and tremble unsteadily over the word, the _r_ coming out more like a _w_ and the _c_ nearly vanishing entirely; it was probably from exhaustion, she knew, but she was violently, painfully reminded of that first, terrifying night, listening to him wail in Roy’s arms after waking up in a strange new place. _“S-scary.”_

Riza’s heart _broke—_ didn’t shatter, didn’t sink, didn’t _twist._ Just simply _broke,_ and broke _completely,_ the force of the sudden pain in her chest overwhelming enough that she sank to her knees, still holding Ed as close as she possibly could. She squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing a sob of her own as tears began to glide down her own cheeks, unable to stop even when Al gasped and quickly knelt beside her, asking what was wrong.

She couldn’t bring herself to speak through the horror and guilt and grief in her chest ( _I scared you, I failed him, I hurt you all, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry),_ simply shaking her head as Ed continued to weep into her chest, her tears still falling even as Al let out a choked sob of his own and pulled her into his arms. Riza let him, resting her forehead against cool metal as she held Ed and Al held her and they cried as one for their failures, their broken, jagged edges, for the pieces of them that just couldn’t be fixed—the ones that could only be understood, listened to, and worn down with love and time.

Love and time. That was what they needed, all of them— _love and time._

For the first time in a long, _long_ while, Riza prayed—to the gods of Creta, to the deities of the various religions within Amestris, to those of Aerugoans and the Xingese and even to Ishvala himself. She knew she had no right to, didn’t deserve to, but she begged that that _someone_ would listen anyway, that they would do it not for her, but for _them._ For these two children, _her_ two children, untainted by the genocide she’d helped execute, untainted by the blood on her hands. She prayed to anyone who might listen, who might ease the burdens of the two boys crying beside her now…and she prayed for that _time,_ prayed that they would be given enough for her to show them that they were _loved_ in all their brokenness, that she would never let them go again, that she would give anything, _do_ anything for them.

_What I’ve done, what I’ve become is unforgivable, but please, for their sakes—_

_Give us time._

_Give_ me _time._

“I love you,” Riza breathed, the tears dripping down her face and onto the head of the boy curled up in her lap, Al’s dry sobs above her sending shudders through his whole body. “I love you both so much.” _No matter what._

_And I’ll be with you ‘til the end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed it! I love writing Riza; she's quickly becoming my favorite character in all this. Next chapter will be a little fluffier, I think, so if you need something sweet after all that, stay tuned! Thank you all so much for reading--and for nearly 7000 hits (and 500 kudos, WHAT)!!! Your support is seriously bringing me to tears.  
> Please leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed it, and as always, I'll see you next Tuesday!


	22. 'cause i can't put to bed these phobias and fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I want my mom._
> 
>  
> 
> It wasn’t the first time he’d thought that since—since all of _this,_ since the capture and the escape and being broken and brought back. He thought those four words even in the Before—hell, those words were what got him _into_ this whole mess in the first place. They were what had lost him his arm and leg and sent him careening down this path, blundering right into Their clutches—and those words had stolen Al’s body from him. It was a selfish, horrible thing to think, to want to steal from death after everything it had taken from him the first time he tried to challenge it.
> 
> But…but Trisha Elric’s face wasn’t the only one who came to mind when the words slipped through his mind unbidden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bby!Ed pov! He's...not having a good time. Being left alone really did a number on him, poor thing. But hey, we get more Mama Riza (and some subtle Royai ;D)!
> 
> Silhouette by Owl City

Talking, Ed discovered, was getting harder and harder—not _physically_ (the scars on his tongue still hurt sometimes, and when he _did_ talk he still stammered and stumbled over words a lot and ended up tripping over himself, but it was still way better than it had been that first day), but just…well, he didn’t know if it was an mental thing, or just the frightened, fluttery feeling in his chest that wouldn’t go away.

He _tried—_ or started to, opened his mouth to say something or managed to get a word out, but then his voice would seem to dissolve into the air and the idea of speaking up seemed too frightening, too _dangerous,_ and he’d find himself trying not to cry all over again as Al and Riza gave each other worried looks before trying to comfort him ( _as if it was their fault that you’re so stupid, so broken—that you couldn’t take having her and Roy gone for_ one day _without losing it and now you’re making her feel bad and you’re making Al worry you’re the worst person in the world)._ Which was absolutely _awful,_ because without talking, he could—well, he couldn’t _write,_ and he couldn’t even point at words because he still could barely read more than the word “the” (which everyone said was progress, but it didn’t _feel_ that way). He just…he couldn’t communicate _anything_ properly now.

Maybe, he found himself theorizing (like a proper scientist, if not an alchemist—he couldn’t write it out, but he could sort-of-kinda draw in the notebook that Al said was Just For Fun, and with a lack of much else to do but sleep and wander the house like a ghost, he’d started trying to draw out theories for why they were all being so _nice_ and why talking was so _hard)_ , it was because the strangely soothing routine the others had built around him had come crashing down. And it wasn’t _their_ fault, of course; he’d gotten too comfortable, deluded himself into thinking he was safe so long as things didn’t change—so long as Roy was there during the day and Riza came by in the evening just to talk (never to ask him about _Them,_ which he was infinitely grateful for) and Al was always and forever by his side whenever he needed him.

And now…now Roy was hurt, and in the hospital, and Ed felt like everything he’d started to count as solid and _real_ was drifting off its axis again. It was dizzying, as though he’d thought he was standing on solid ground, only to find himself falling through an endless pool of deep, dark water. He was dissolving back into a ghost, coming untethered from a world he’d begun to trust again.

He wasn’t _real_ anymore—if he’d ever been. If it hadn’t just been pretty delusions and false hopes and beautiful lies.

Maybe _that_ was why he was losing his voice, he reasoned, staring down at the leather-bound notebook in his lap, pencils scattered on the small bedside table. Ghosts didn’t speak, so why would he? Only _people_ spoke, and They—well, They had been right. Ed wasn’t a person anymore, not really.

He’d known it—They’d _taught_ it to him, and he’d learned Their lesson, he’d done what They asked _(and They hurt and hit and burned him anyway, until he was Good, until he didn’t make any mistakes and They were satisfied with what They’d broken),_ but the thought still made tears rise, blurring his vision. _You shouldn’t have let them give you so much—shouldn’t have been so selfish, so greedy, now you’re being Bad again and Roy is hurt and you can’t even go visit him because it’s a military hospital and everybody thinks you’re_ dead _._

Two days, he reminded himself, balancing the sketchbook on his knees as he fumbled for another pencil, hands trembling. They’d only wanted to keep Roy for _five,_ and three had already passed, so he’d be _fine—_ he just needed to last two more days.

“Ed?” There was a knock, knuckles rapping against the door—too quiet to be Al, so it had to be Riza. He jolted at the noise before he could stop himself, a whimper pulling from his sore and aching throat as his hands quivered— _stop being scared it’s just Riza she’s there she protects you she’ll never hurt you she—she said she l—loved you._ He squeezed his eyes shut. _Said she_ loves _you, you can trust her—breathe, breathe,_ breathe. “Can I come in?”

 _Said she loves you,_ he reminded himself yet again, wrapping his hands around the sketchbook, flesh hand clinging to pencil. _Stop bein’ dumb, not gonna—stop being so_ stupid. “Y-yeah,” he croaked, glancing over at Ree, propped against the pillows next to him. The dragon’s button eyes seemed warm, comforting, a reminder that he was _safe_ and _protected_ here. Like everything was really going to be _okay._

The door clicked open, Riza offering him a smile as she slipped in. Some of the worry in Ed’s chest— _not here to hurt you, not mad, loves you not gonna hurt you loveyouloveyouloveyou—_ eased as she perched on the edge of his bed, amber eyes bright and fond. “Bad night?” she asked quietly, and Ed winced before he could stop himself, hiding his face in his knees. The nightmares had been—been _bad_ last night, but thinking about it made them hurt _worse_ , and he didn’t want to think about Their laughter or the cold of the cell or the sick, crawling sensation that made him want to claw at his skin until he couldn’t feel it anymore. 

Riza’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him to her side. He let it happen, the sketchbook tumbling off the bed (he jumped at the loud noise, whimpering—which was _stupid,_ he knew what made the noise and it was _his_ _fault_ for not paying attention) as he nestled into her side. “U-uh-huh,” he tried to whisper, but nothing came out, the word fizzling out and dying like a wet match. He squeezed his eyes shut, settling on a nod as he tucked his head against her shoulder.

She hummed softly, gently smoothing a hand over his hair. “Talking still hard?” she asked sympathetically. Ed felt heat rush to his face, but he nodded against her shoulder, unable to swallow back a thin, trembling whine of defeat. _Sorry, sorrysorrysorry—should be better do more fix this hurtshurtshurts._

He was met with a sigh, strong arms wrapped securely around him as she rested her chin atop his head. Instinctively, he curled up smaller, listening to the comforting rhythm of her heartbeat— _here she’s here she’s here she’s here and she’s not going anywhere she promised shedidshedidshedid._ “I’m sorry, _solnyshko,”_ she murmured. “I know you miss him.”

 _Miss him_ —he _missed_ Roy Mustang, the person he’d called _bastard_ and _monster_ and all sorts of horrible things, the person he’d hated and respected and wanted to impress in equal measure. He’d spent so much of _Before_ trying to be strong and fearless, to lean on no one—spent _two years_ doing it—but two (two? Had it been two months already? It was harder than he’d expected to keep a grasp on time; it kept slipping away with his words and blending together until he couldn’t tell the difference in dates anymore) months of being unable to do anything _but_ rely on people for—for _everything,_ and now…now he really _did_ miss him. He missed being read to and talked with and the look of absolute, overwhelming _pride_ when he did anything even _slightly_ right, missed knowing that the person who took care of him was _safe._

Tears welled up again despite his efforts to hold them back and he whimpered again. Riza hummed again, her voice soft, before she whispered, “I miss him, too.”

Echoes of guilt in his chest solidified, heavy and haunting and _real,_ and he could only hold on tighter as she cradled him. _You’re not the only one in pain right now,_ he scolded himself. _Riza misses him and Al does, too, and they’re coping with it_ without _going mute so get it together or_ something, _you big baby._ “M’s-sorry,” he managed to whisper, pulling shyly on her sleeve until she glanced down at him, amber eyes softening. “R-Roy—means s‘lot t’you?” He’d known they cared about each other before, no matter how much Roy complained about his lieutenant’s paperwork torture or how often a gun ended up pointed in the colonel’s direction, but these past weeks…they hadn’t acted any different around each other, really (not that Ed could _remember—_ details from Before were hazy, shrouded in a fog that let the feelings surrounding them through, but not the bits and pieces that made them _important,_ which was frustrating), but there was something _different_ there, closer to the surface.

His words came out slurred and unsteady, syllables and sounds dissolving and overlapping and running together, but Riza smiled like she understood perfectly (like he wasn’t an idiot, a _coward,_ overwhelmed by the slightest thing and left silent and shaking in the wake of the tiniest reminder of the cell). “He does. He’s a good soldier, a fair superior…and a better friend.” She blinked, as if surprised by her own words—or maybe by saying them—before chuckling quietly, shaking her head. “We’ve known each other a long, long time. Before the war—”

Ed blinked, puzzled. _Before the war?_ he repeated to himself, furrowing his brow. He’d thought that they’d met _during_ the Ishvalan genocide—or in the academy before it, or _something_ like that. But if they’d known each other _before…_ _That would explain a lot,_ that rare, powerful voice that sounded a bit like Before-Ed murmured. Curiosity, unfamiliar and _bright,_ rose in his chest.

He wanted to—to know _more_ about something. Someone, really, or _two_ someones, but it had still been so long since he really wanted to know more about _anything._ Asking questions had—had gotten him _hurt_ for so long that he’d stifled that curiosity, beaten it down desperately until it couldn’t hurt him. But now…now it was _back._ Granted, it wasn’t for alchemic theories or battle strategies or anything _important,_ but it was still _something_. “H-how,” he started—and flinched, the word coming out raspy and cluttered and _strange._ “H-how—meet?” _No, no, sounds so_ dumb—

Riza’s smile softened, warm and gentle, as though struggling so much with such stupid words to struggle _with_ didn’t make him a failure, didn’t make him weak and _broken._ “My father was an alchemist. Roy came from Central to apprentice under him.” She shook her head, a look Ed managed to identify as _nostalgia_ stealing over her face, gaze distant as the past seemed to rise up around her. “I hated him at first—just another stupid city boy come to pretend that he was worth my father’s precious time, to mock and jeer and condescend to everyone I’d grown up with. And then he turned out to be charming and sweet and studious, and I hated him even more for being so likeable, so far from all the others who’d swaggered in thinking they could master something that was slowly turning my father into a shell of a man.”

 _Charming. Likeable._ Before-Ed hadn’t seen much of _that,_ so determined to annoy _Colonel Bastard_ (his stomach flip-flopped and turned inside out at the memory, sick and scared—he couldn’t say those things anymore, that was _badbadbad)_ that he hadn’t bothered learning or listening or _paying attention_ enough to see anything of _that._ He’d known that people _thought_ Roy was charming, of course, but all he’d really cared about Before was that he gave him leads to the Stone (guilt settled sharp and painful in his chest at the reminder— _Al’s still stuck still hurt still trapped allyourfault can’t even fix him stupid stupid stupid)_ and had his back enough times that he could sort-of-almost trust him.

Now, though—now his insides were twisting painfully, his voice almost dried up from the sheer _terror_ that gripped him at the thought of Roy in pain—hurt, dying, _leaving._ Hearing about him (a different Roy than Before-Ed knew, a different one than he knew _now),_ though…it made it a little less scary, a little less overwhelming.

And for the first time in a long, long while, he _wanted_ to learn more. “F-friends?” he whispered after a moment. It wasn’t what he wanted to say, not by a long shot, but the words were drip-drip-dripping from his brain faster than he could catch hold of them, dying on his scarred tongue more swiftly than he could possibly speak, and that was all he managed before the silence caught hold of him again. Still, _something_ had to have changed for Riza to go from thinking that Roy was selfish but charming (just like he had Before, he thought with some sort of morbid amusement—he’d known that grown-ups and important people either found him annoying or chari—charis—likeable, but the bastard seemed like…a selfish bastard. And then They’d found him, and Roy had taken him in without a second thought, and—well, selfish didn’t fit on the list anymore. Barely _anything_ of what Before-Ed thought about _anything_  was on the list anymore) to calling him a good soldier and a good friend. 

“How we became friends?” Riza repeated, and Ed felt something bright and warm and powerful swell in his chest, the same feeling that burst within him when he woke from a nightmare and Roy was nearby to hold him and help him stop hearing Their voices or when Riza took him up to the roof to watch the stars during the worst nights and let him cry into her shoulder. He didn’t want to name it, too scared that _They_ would know and take it away, but he saw it… _reflected_ at him when they looked at him, that bright, fierce, overwhelming feeling that almost made him feel brave.

He didn’t want to name it—but if he did, he would call it _love._ And it grew stronger, bright and sure and tying him to reality before the world could fade into nightmares, with the knowledge that Riza _understood._ That she knew what he wanted to say, and didn’t think he was stupid for struggling with it (even if he _was),_ and took care of him like he _mattered._

He nodded, his head still tucked against her shoulder, huddled close enough to hear the comforting pulse of her heartbeat— _not leaving, not leaving, not leaving._ Her arms were warm and gentle around him, but _strong,_ and he felt the closest he’d been to _safe_ since she’d returned without Roy. “It took a while,” she admitted with a quiet laugh he could feel reve—reverbe—rumble through her entire body. “I was determined to hate him, and he seemed determined to avoid me, and we spent a good six months dancing around each other. But…well, he was a boy from the city who left the only home he’d ever known in order to learn more about his passion, and he was _miserable._ Miserable and _lonely.”_

 _Lonely._ A rush of something deep and warm and sorrowful swept through him, and he blinked thoughtfully, dazedly. He…he could understand that. He was supposed to be an alchemist, too—to learn and excel and do Important Things, but the idea of it was— _badbadbad_ and _scary._ But even more terrifying than that was the idea of being alone again, locked in the cell with Their voices crooning in his ears and Their hands coming up with new tortures to hurt and punish. Touch could be frightening, but being left all alone was a million times worse.

“I think the day that I learned that was the day I decided to be his friend,” Riza said thoughtfully, and he pulled his attention back to the story, blinking up at her curiously. “He didn’t believe me at first, of course—at that point, we’d almost made a game of antagonizing each other.” Amusement and something soft and sweet and faraway flickered in her eyes, their deep amber swimming with memories. “He asked me if I was possessed when I asked him to go down to the village bakery with me.”

Despite everything—despite the fear still whirling in his chest, the dizzying thunder of terror and guilt and self-loathing, _Their_ voices still hissing sweet, cold truths in his ears—he giggled, the sound small and raspy and halting. It made his throat hurt, burning and scratching like sandpaper, and it turned into a cough before he could stop it, but it was a laugh all the same, and—well, it felt like _forever_ since he’d laughed. Even if it felt like a cat had gotten its claws into his throat and was using it like a scratching post.

Riza made a sympathetic noise as his coughing wound down, and he clung to her gratefully, hiding his face in her shoulder again. _Sorry—sorrysorrysorry._ “Are you feeling sick again, _solnyshko?”_ she asked. Her voice was gentle, but Ed could hear the underlying current of _worry_ within it, the warm nostalgia dissipating as her hand came up to feel his forehead.

 _Sick?_ Ed swallowed thickly, a whimper clawing its way out of his mouth before he could stop it. _Not supposed to be sick—Riza’s gonna be disappointed, Al’s gonna be sad—can’t be sick again, can’tbecan’tbeimsorry—_ “U-uh—” He shook his head against her shoulder with a whine. _I’m not sick,_ he wanted to say, but all that came out was “H-hurts.” His tongue slipped and stumbled unsteadily over the words, the “r” slurring and the “t” nearly falling off entirely until it sounded like, _“huw’s”_.

“Oh, _malo sveta.”_ Her voice was as soft as sunlight, and Ed wanted to sink into the warmth of it, to cling to her and hide from the terrifying world around him and never let go. Her hand was cool against his forehead, soothing the frustrating _itchiness_ of the heat crawling over his skin. A whimper escaped as he pawed muzzily at her hand. “You’re warm, _ílie mou._ You could have said something if you were feeling ill.” Her hand moved to cup his cheek, her thumb stroking gently over his cheekbone. “Here, I’ll go get some of your medicine—”

 _No medicine, don’t want, tastes icky—don’t need, can be good, promise. “N-nuh.”_ His voice cracked over the word until it didn’t sound like a word at all, until it became some foreign, strange sort of half-whine, more sound than word. He shook his head with another whimper before trying again. “N-no.”

Brown eyes blinked down at him, widening with surprise before softening. “I know it tastes awful, Ed, but if you’re getting sick again—”

No—well, yes, because the medicine tasted really bad, and most of the time he was too sleepy or too out-of-it to realize that he was taking it until the awful, grimy taste was coating his tongue. Which probably helped the others, considering that the thought of taking it while mostly-conscious made him want to throw up and cry all over again.

But also _no,_ because he…he didn’t want her to leave. He didn’t want to be _alone,_ even for a minute, and he didn’t want to think about how he’d let Al down and couldn’t fix him or how disappointed Roy would be when he came back and realized that Ed had gotten _worse,_ not better. He wanted to stay with Riza and to listen to her stories about the past—to just hear her _talk,_ and listen to her heartbeat, and know for sure that she wasn’t going anywhere.

He wanted—

_I want my mom._

It wasn’t the first time he’d thought that since—since all of _this,_ since the capture and the escape and being broken and brought back. He thought those four words even in the Before—hell, those words were what got him _into_ this whole mess in the first place. They were what had lost him his arm and leg and sent him careening down this path, blundering right into Their clutches—and those words had stolen Al’s body from him. It was a selfish, horrible thing to think, to want to steal from death after everything it had taken from him the first time he tried to challenge it.

But…but Trisha Elric’s face wasn’t the only one who came to mind when the words slipped through his mind unbidden. No, now there was blonde hair and solemn, kind amber eyes, calloused hands that could take a life mercilessly and hold him close with overwhelming tenderness, icy rage and the furious protectiveness of a winter storm. Now there was _Riza,_ always gentle, always kind, who protected Al when he couldn’t and protected _him_ from all his worst nightmares.

It should have felt like a betrayal of Mom. It _was_ a betrayal of Mom. But sitting there, clinging to her as his throat and head pulsed in steady agony, desperate for comfort, he didn’t _care._ He just wanted the hollow, aching feeling in his chest to stop—to stop worrying, to stop being _scared,_ to stop feeling like something small and worthless and poisonous. He wanted the pain to _go away,_ and even if she couldn’t erase it entirely, at least she eased it somewhat.

“N-no go,” he pleaded, gazing up at her. Tears were pricking at his eyes, burning at them, and he didn’t bother trying to hold them back as they finally spilled over. “S-s’ay with y-you. N-no’ ‘lone.” _Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, notagainnotgainnotagain._

Riza gazed at him for a moment, her face unreadable no matter how hard Ed tried to focus—but maybe that was the exhaustion (he _knew_ he was supposed to try and sleep more at night, but the bad dreams kept coming and he kept forcing himself awake so that he wouldn’t fall asleep and then panic and make a mess and Riza and Roy and Al would be _so disappointed_ if they knew). That _something—love?—_ flickered in her gaze after a heartbeat, and Ed felt more than heard a startled cry leave his throat as she stood, lifting him with ease. “Of course not,” she said matter-of-factly. “We’ll go together, _malo sveta,_ and then we’ll find Al, and I’ll tell you two about the time Roy fell in the pond by my father’s house. How does that sound?”

   There was, Ed realized dazedly, a flicker of _worry_ in her gaze—as though she thought he’d say _no,_ that he wouldn’t want to go with her, that he’d change his mind. Guilt swirled sickeningly in his gut; _am I that—that bad? That unpredictable still?_

 _Do they…do they think I’m still scared of them?_ The thought was lud—ludi— _ridiculous._ Everyone _else_ was scary, but the people in this apartment (and Winry, of course) were the only ones who _weren’t._ They were good and kind and they still loved him despite everything and he—he _trusted_ them, didn’t they know that? Was he really that terrible, that much of a _brat_ that he didn’t show it?

He had to do better. Stop being such a scaredy-cat, start trying to be a little bit more like Before-Ed, study his letters harder, try more, _do more._ He could. He _would._

But maybe—maybe tomorrow. Maybe after this second bout of sickness went away, and Roy came back, and everything settled down. Maybe after he felt a little more human and a little less adrift in a world that felt less and less like his, he’d start…start fixing himself properly.

For now, he nestled into Riza’s arms, rested his head over her heart, and whispered, “G-good.”

And despite the sickness, despite the constant pain, despite the persistent gnawing of fear in his belly, it _was_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Ed. It's hard to fight a cold when you're also fighting...everything else. But he's got (most) of his family with him, and he's on the road to recovery! Hooray! I also hope you guys liked Riza reminiscing about her time with Roy when they were kids ;) Next chapter will have even MORE Royai, but also more parental roy and riza fluff. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! We've passed 7000 hits and I'm _still_ reeling. I love all of you to death and your continued support gives me so much joy. Please, leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed it, ask me any questions you might have. And as always, I'll see you next Tuesday!


	23. what's waited 'til tomorrow starts tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most of the time, he was alone. Sometimes Aunt Chris let herself in, or Hughes camped outside his door like they were sixteen and stupid again, but nine times out of ten, no one was there when he opened that door.
> 
> This time, though...this time, he was coming home to his _kids_. Or as good as, anyway, regardless of the fact that everyone thought Ed was dead and Al in some strange limbo between being part of Mustang's team and going off on his own desperate searches. He was coming home to them after days in the hospital that were mostly spent fretting over them (Hughes would _never_ let him live it down, honestly) and keeping any and all paperwork as far away from himself as possible.
> 
> He was _home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roy introspection and hints of backstory! Parental Roy! Parental Riza! Royai! Ed having a good day! This chapter's got it all, folks!
> 
> From Now On from The Greatest Showman. It's just a good Roy song in general, I think :D

Roy had experienced several homecomings over his thirty years—some happy, most of them bittersweet, a handful purely melancholy. The earliest he could remember was walking into Chris Mustang’s bar after leaving the police station, clutching her hand and staring around at this strange place with wide eyes, all velvet and dark oak and a rich scent he’d later come to learn was liquor. He’d been…he’d been _five,_ the deaths of his parents still fresh in his mind, and clinging to anything even _vaguely_ familiar. This woman, with his father’s dark hair and broad shoulders, was the closest thing he’d had, and despite the grief and terror still hanging over him, he’d welcomed her awkward but earnest attempts at comforting him.

Eventually, Madame Christmas’s bar became home. _Miss Chris_ became _Aunt_ (and then _mom,_ though he’d never called her that out loud) _,_ and _Roy_ became _squirt_ or _Roy-Boy,_ and he’d learned how to balance affection with strength and pride with pragmatism from her. Her girls had become his sisters, constant companions and friends, and he’d learned from them how to be charming, how to play off confidence with the slightest hint of deference. It was there that he’d discovered alchemy, and found a passion in something he’d never thought would be an option.

He’d left the warm comfort of the bar again at fifteen, headed out to a sprawling estate in the countryside to study alchemy in greater depth. He found himself wandering the nearby village, buying pastries from the bakery and toying with the thought of simply hitting the condescending old man over the head with one of his many books and hopping on the train back to Central. The only reason he _didn’t_ was Aunt Chris’s disappointment—and the fact that the man was the father of his first friend outside his family, a girl who broke rules like they were little more than kindling to spark a bonfire and taught him how to steal hearts and pastries and information.

He’d returned only _after_ learning all the man had to teach, his heart empty and full in equal measure—he already missed the wild girl he’d met there, with her deadly aim and laugh like what he thought the ocean might sound like, but he was going _home._ Aunt Chris had ruffled his hair, and even though she wasn’t much one for hugging, she’d looped an arm around his shoulders and squeezed him against her side while his sisters laughed and cooed over how handsome he’d gotten and asked him what he’d learned.

The worst one was after Ishval—when people were calling him a _hero_ , celebrating him, offering him their loyalty. It was a memory seared in the fire of purpose rather than destruction, an arrow given deadly aim at last, but that purpose and drive didn’t make it any better when he woke up screaming. They didn’t quiet his mind when curses and wails were ravaging it. They didn’t stop his heart from pounding at loud noises or keep him from crumpling to the ground, alone in the overwhelming silence of his apartment, and whispering apologies for crimes that didn’t deserve to be forgiven. Time had done that, bit by bit, but the pyre in his mind still roared and that homecoming would be forever stained in innocent blood.

There had been plenty since then, after missions, “dates”, lonely nights spent drinking and mourning and warm, light-filled ones where Hughes dragged him to have dinner with his family and Roy pretended to complain. There were ones that came after hospital visits and injuries just like these, and ones spent sleeping after three days straight of working non-stop (and on some memorable occasions—most of them in the last year, frantically trying to find Ed and bring him home—a week or two spent entirely in the office). Most of the time, he was alone. Sometimes Aunt Chris let herself in, or Hughes camped outside his door like they were sixteen and stupid again, but nine times out of ten, no one was there when he opened that door.

This time, though…this time, he was coming home to his _kids_. Or as good as, anyway, regardless of the fact that everyone thought Ed was dead and Al in some strange limbo between being part of Mustang’s team and going off on his own desperate searches. He was coming home to them after days in the hospital that were mostly spent fretting over them (Hughes would _never_ let him live it down, honestly) and keeping any and all paperwork as far away from himself as possible.

He was _home._

Roy inhaled, exhaled— _why the hell are you so nervous?_ he scolded himself. _It’s your own house, and you know the people in it almost as well as you know yourself—_ before knocking on the door. It was more of a courtesy than anything (he had the keys, after all), but he figured it would startle the current inhabitants less than him slipping in soundlessly and startling them all.

He wrapped his fingers around the crutch from his bad leg, fished his keys free of his pocket, and unlocked the door, limping inside. Riza had called him on the second day, telling him that Ed’s cold was back with a vengeance and that he was barely talking, either from fear or from pain, but the kid sitting at the counter with colored pencils in hand and bantering haltingly with a beaming Al over what to draw seemed… _happy._ Happy and safe and closer to stable than ever, which was all he’d wanted for him since—well, since they’d found him.

Roy couldn’t help the fond grin that slipped over his face as Riza emerged, ruffling Ed’s hair gently as she asked Al what they were bickering about now. It was almost _disgustingly_ domestic, the scene before him, the two boys huddled side-by-side and chatting as if nothing was wrong while Riza laughed at whatever silly argument was going on. It was something he’d never hoped to see, never hoped to _have,_ and now that it was here—now that they were in his life, all of them—he hoped it would never disappear.

No. He wouldn’t _let_ it disappear.

He’d protect them. All of them. And they’d have his back in return, in whatever ways they could, all the ways that counted. Riza’s ever-present North Star, Ed’s flickering, faint light in the darkness, Al’s steady-glowing hearth—he’d keep them safe, and trust that they would do the same for him. It was the least he could do, really, after being the catalyst that got them all into this mess.

Roy leaned on his crutch and cleared his throat just loud enough for Riza to hear, arching an eyebrow when she looked up from the boys. Her eyes found his, sharp as her namesake’s and rich as molasses. He valiantly tried to crush the strange skip of his heart when he saw her—tried and failed, heat rushing to his face even as he offered her a lopsided grin. Her eyebrows rose when she saw his cheeks pink, a hint of teasing slipping into her smile, and he swallowed back a groan. _Oh, she’ll never let me forget this…_   

“Boys,” she said, and the quiet banter stopped as two gazes, one soulfire red and the other brilliant, overbright gold, turned to her in confusion. Her smile widened ever-so-slightly, and she inclined her head to him in the slightest nod. Roy chuckled softly, watching their eyes widen at the sound with a flicker of _anticipation._ He _missed_ them, he realized—missed both of them more than he’d ever imagined. “Turn around for me, would you?”

They did, Al rising to his feet and pivoting slowly as Ed shifted on his stool, red eyes and gold ones finding him and going even wider with—well, he hoped it was surprise and not horror or something equally upsetting. Roy grinned at them, raising one hand and wiggling his fingers in a tiny wave. Ed squeaked and latched onto Al’s hand, his face lighting up. “Gee, kiddos,” he said, affecting a mournful air, “I thought you’d be more excited to see me.”

The effect was immediate. Ed let out a cry of pure _relief_ and tumbled off the stool, Riza catching at his arms gently to keep him from collapsing completely. Al beamed at him, soulfire eyes brilliant. “Colonel, you’re back!”

“How many times have I told you to call me Roy, Alphonse?” he scolded absently, letting out a surprised _oof_ as Ed scrambled to his feet and threw himself at him, flinging his arms around his neck. His hands came up around him instinctively, his crutch clattering to the ground as he staggered back a step. Pain shot through his leg and he tensed, wincing before he could stop himself. “Easy there, sweetheart, I’m not at 100% yet.”

Now that he was holding Ed, he could better feel the fever radiating off of him, the faint shivers running through his body. A frown worked its way onto his face despite his determination to be cheerful for Ed’s sake. Just when they seemed to take a step forward, everything conspired against them to throw them ten steps backward, until they were buried deeper than they were the first time around. He was starting to wonder if Ed might be cursed—first the capture, then the first bout of illness, then the automail procedure, then _this… Why can’t you give him a break, goddamnit?_ he pleaded with no one in particular.

“S-sorry.” It came out small and halting, sound more like _saw-wee,_ and something in Roy’s chest twisted. Ed pulled back, blinking worried gold eyes up at him. “H-hurt y-you?”

Roy’s heart melted despite the worry that spiked within him at how much he was struggling with the words. “No, baby, of course not. Some bastard just decided I needed a bullet in the leg.”

Riza raised a hand to her mouth to hide her chuckle, before giving him a stern look. _“Language,_ sir.”

“C-can h-hear cursing,” Ed said, almost crossly. Roy chuckled at how put-out he looked, Riza arching an amused eyebrow in his direction. “D-don’ like—c-can’t s-say it anymore, b-but I can _h-hear_ it. N-not a baby,” he added sternly to Roy, tugging at his shirt until he got the hint and set him down. He swayed unsteadily for a second before bouncing back over to Al, who hadn’t stopped grinning—or doing what passed for a grin when you were a giant suit of armor that had to convey emotions through slightly exaggerated body language—through the entire exchange. He whispered something to his little brother, standing on tiptoe to reach his “ear” even when he bent down obligingly, before darting off down the hall with Al trotting along behind him.

“So,” Roy remarked, grabbing his crutch again and limping his way over to Al’s recently vacated seat at the counter, “he’s lively.” _Really_ lively, despite the fever and the apparent struggle with simpler words than usual. It was a pleasant change, if a surprising (and, if he was being honest, _worrying)_ one. “And fighting a cold again. Is that healthy?” Probably not, but she’d know better than him.

She sighed, taking a seat in the opposite chair. “I’d like to think he built up a lot of restless energy after being sick for so long, but since he’s _still_ ill…I don’t know. He gets tired very quickly, though, and he only really perked up like that yesterday, when he realized you’d be coming home today. He was pretty lethargic before that, mostly stuck to his room and napping.” Amusement flashed in her warm brown eyes. Roy allowed himself exactly two seconds of thinking longingly about how he’d like to drown in their depths forever before smiling faintly at her next words. “He missed you a lot, you know.”

“I know.” If that greeting had been anything to go by, at least—which he suspected it was. “I missed him too,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair ruefully. It still surprised him, though he didn’t know why anymore. He’d already accepted that he cared for the kid as though he were his own, that he considered Ed his son _(he had a son, holy shit)_ in all the ways that mattered. And yet being parted from him had hurt more than he’d expected. _What’s it going to be like when I go back to work? Hell, what are we going to do about hiding him?_

“And that surprises you.”

It wasn’t a question, he thought wryly. Riza knew him too well—better than he knew himself at this point.  “Yes.” He exhaled roughly and buried his head in his hands. “God, Riza, how the hell did we end up _parenting,_ of all things? Aren’t we the worst possible candidates for this sort of thing? _Especially_ if the kid’s…like that?” _What if we just make it worse? What if we try to help and fuck him up even more? What if we end up hurting him beyond repair?_

Her eyes were wide when he raised his head again, but she reached out, laying her hand over his. Roy stared down at her hand uncomprehendingly, fair-skinned and calloused, immeasurable strength lying beneath a false almost-delicacy. They were as stained in blood as his own, and yet—and yet her touch seemed to lessen the burden somewhat. “It’s terrifying,” she agreed quietly. “Today’s a good day, but tomorrow might not be. Or the day after. Or any day after that. It’s impossible to tell, and impossible to protect him from his own mind.” She sighed, suddenly looking as weary as him. “I…I don’t know. We just keep trying, and keep hoping, I suppose. Keep looking for what works.”

“Protect him from what doesn’t,” Roy said softly, gaze still fixed on their joined hands. It was rare—painfully rare, _exhaustingly_ rare—that he got to touch her, even in passing. That he got to hold her hand, flirt with her and _mean_ it, smile for real and not just under the mask of Colonel Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist and Hero (he loathed that word more than anything) of Ishval. They had been friends, once, and then he’d been a kid with a crush, and then came the war and they’d come out of it—well, not lovers. Maybe not precisely _in love,_ not yet, but close. Their bond had run deeper than words, ran deeper than superior and subordinate, than friendship, than duty—than even _love._ It was something he couldn’t _put_ words to, and didn’t dare try. “Find the bastards who did this and kill them. Just another day in the life, I suppose.”

Riza shrugged. “It’s better than losing him again. It’s better than him being _gone.”_    

Roy fell silent at the memory of that year—that haunting, horrible year, the way everything but the search had seemed to shrink from his mind, Al’s frantic, constant presence, roaming Amestris in search of his big brother and only staying at headquarters to grab new (dead-end) leads and coordinate with the rest of them. More than once, he’d seen Fullmetal in his nightmares, bloodied and burnt and staring at him defiantly, demanding to know why Roy had failed him.

Ed was still in his nightmares now, but there was no defiance, just fear and sorrow and a quiet, _“Why didn’t you save me?”_

Every time, Roy would reach for the dream-Ed, desperate to sweep him into his arms and apologize and hide him somewhere that he’d finally be safe, far from the pain the world had given him—and every time, the dream-Ed would dissolve into ash as soon as Roy touched him, the last thing to go those terrified golden eyes, still asking, asking, asking— _“Why didn’t you come for me?”_

He never had an answer for him. Because for all that Roy hadn’t known, all that he hadn’t been able to piece together, Ed had _been in East City._ Those monsters had held him captive _in Roy’s city,_ no doubt laughing as his team scoured the four corners of the earth, shredding Ed’s soul to dust right under his goddamn nose. Roy, for all his supposed brilliance, hadn’t worked out that his _own kid_ was being hurt in the same place he was supposed to guard, and there was no excuse he could give, no reason that was even _vaguely_ acceptable.

He hadn’t saved Ed, hadn’t come for him. Ed, for all that he’d been broken, had saved _himself—_ physically, at least. All Roy was doing now was picking up the pieces. Or trying to.

_Failing to._

“We _really_ don’t deserve him,” he muttered. Edward Elric had always been too good for murderers like them. Despite the fact that Fullmetal had thought his hands just as dirty, his soul just as tainted by what he’d done to his brother, he’d _always_ been good in a way that no soldier ever really was. Oh, sure, he hid the selflessness behind anger and the compassion behind bravado, but everyone with a working set of eyes could tell: Ed was one of the rare _good people_ in a world that took and took and took.

If anything, that was only clearer now. Ed had no reason to trust them. He’d worked with them for three years and loudly proclaimed his hatred of every second of it. They—mostly Roy, but Riza, his stalwart and loyal ally, had backed him up often enough—had put him in danger over and over again. Hell, they were the first two soldiers he’d met, the ones who dragged him into all this. Roy was the one who fed him the dream of the Stone.

And yet Ed had memorized his number, had recalled it despite a year of constant torture, been able to remember even though he couldn’t read or understand complicated words. He’d latched onto Roy and Riza as _safe_ when there were a thousand better options—the Rockbells, the teacher he’d mentioned in Dublith, the allies he’d made throughout his travels. Maybe it was only because of their initial proximity, but he hadn’t asked them to call anyone else, even Winry Rockbell. He’d just wanted them and Al to stay close. He’d trusted them to _protect him._

Fragile and frightened and broken beyond repair, he’d _trusted them._ And somewhere along the way, he’d wrapped both of them around his little finger—with absolutely no clue that he was doing it at all. He’d turned a human weapon and the country’s best sharpshooter into people who would kill for him without a moment’s hesitation or a flicker of remorse.

For all that he’d been broken, Edward Elric was still _good._ He didn’t believe it, Roy knew, believed with all his heart that he was bad and ruined and brought pain to everyone around him, but—but that was _fine_ , if only for now. Everyone around him believed it enough to make up for everything his captors had done. To help him believe it, too.

“No,” Riza murmured, and squeezed his hand gently, “we don’t.”

“But we’re going to stick with him anyway.”

“For as long as he’ll have us and then some.”

Roy chuckled despite himself. “Glad to know we’re on the same page.”

Her eyes glinted, lips quirking up into a faint half-smile. “Always, _Roy.”_

He blinked in surprise at that, something brilliant and bubbly filling his chest, ridiculously like that feeling he’d gotten as a stupid fifteen-year-old charming pastries out of bakers and pushing bullies into ponds with the less-stupid-but-still-childishly-naïve fifteen-year-old version of the woman now gazing at him with a sort of deep, proud fondness. “You used my name,” he said, and then cursed himself. Wasn’t he supposed to be charismatic and charming or something? Why the hell did he still get tongue-tied whenever she smiled at him?

_“You used my name.” What the fuck, Mustang. You sound like a complete idiot._

But still, it felt— _important._ He always referred to her as “Lieutenant Hawkeye” and she to him as “Colonel” or “Sir.” Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d called her by name. It felt like something…precious. Like a tentative reach for his hand, like a gate creaking open the slightest bit.

And then Riza—who would no doubt be the death of him— _smiled,_ full and brilliant and without restraint. “To be fair, you used mine first.”

Had he—oh, shit, he _had,_ hadn’t he? “I assure you, it was entirely extemporary.”

Definitely going down in history as the world’s greatest wooer of women. _You, Mustang, are a goddamn mess, get it together._

Before Riza could respond, though, there was a thud, and a reproachful, _“Al!”_ followed by a sheepish, “Sorry, Brother.” Amusement replacing the terrifying threat of very important feelings he’d no doubt have to confront later, Roy turned just in time to see a flash of gold whisk away behind the door. There was a soft snicker, and then a squeak, and Al walked out a moment later, Ed huddled in his arms and clutching Ree (and looking ridiculously, adorably sulky). _Eavesdropping. Of course._ “Why am I not surprised?”

“Didn’ w-wanna ‘t-terrupt,” Ed explained, though he looked considerably more tired and considerably shyer than he’d been when he’d darted off down the hall. Riza excused herself quietly as the phone started to ring, heading over to pick it up. “S-sounded—important.” Judging from the way his gaze flicked between him and Riza, the _importance_ he’d gotten out of it had nothing to do with him—and everything to do with aforementioned feelings that Roy knew he’d have to deal with later.

“We really didn’t,” Al added, though there was _gratitude_ in his voice, his gaze, his posture. _Thank you,_ he seemed to be saying, _for saying you’ll stay with him. That you won’t give up._

_Of course we won’t._ And they’d stay for Al, too, Roy knew. He was just as much theirs to protect and safeguard and try their damnedest to heal as Ed was. “Mm-hm.” He raised an eyebrow at them. “Now, what was so important that you went tearing off like bats out of hell for it?” Despite his teasing tone, he was genuinely curious. He presumed there had to be a _reason—_ unless Ed had somehow read the between the nonexistent lines and convinced Al to give them a moment alone.

Terrifying. That kid was _terrifying._

Ed ducked his head, before glancing sideways at Al. Roy watched, bemused, as the two brothers held one of their strange wordless conversations—this time a halfhearted argument that Al seemed to win, judging by how he set Ed down gently and nudged him toward Roy. Now that he wasn’t curled up, Roy could see that he was carrying a piece of paper along with his stuffed animal, holding it like he was afraid it might drift away. “M-made,” he started, before furrowing his brow, struggling visibly with the words. Tears rose in those golden eyes, but before Roy could say a word to reassure him, he settled on, “f-for you,” and thrust it at him.

Roy took the proffered paper, unfolding it curiously.

And stared.

Scribbled shadows surrounded a brilliant glow etched into the paper, drawn out in painstaking detail by a remarkably steady hand. Within the light stood a man, coat flaring around him, fingers poised to snap— _Roy,_ his eyes sharp and watchful, a playful grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. His shoulders were squared, his chin lifted as he faced the nightmare creatures fearlessly.

It was him. It was him as _Ed_ saw him, fearless and proud and protective, capable of taking on any threat and _surviving._ It was a hero’s face, all warmth and kindness and fury.

It was so much more than Roy deserved.

Ed watched, eyes wide and anxious, like he was afraid Roy was going to laugh and burn it, rip it up and throw it away—before squeaking as Roy swept his arms around him, pulling him into a hug. “Thank you,” he murmured around the sudden lump in his throat. “It’s beautiful.”

Ed trembled against him, before burying his head in his shoulder. “M-missed you.”

Roy squeezed his eyes shut, wondering who he’d finally managed to appease in order to earn the trust of Edward Elric. “Me too, buddy. Me too.”

“Colonel.”

He forced himself to raise his head, opening his eyes to meet Riza’s gaze as Ed trembled against him. Her face was pale, but her chin was lifted, brown eyes blazing—like she was walking out in front of a firing squad and saying, “Damn the blindfolds.” It was the poise of a soldier marching into war, and instinctively, he stiffened to match it.

And then she said two words that brought the peace of the day crashing down around him.

“They know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CLIFFHANGER! Someone's figured out that Edward Elric is indeed alive and...not-well, and that Good Day is pretty much going down the drain--but hey, at least Ed's a little peppier and more coherent! And Roy's home (and still crushing hard on Riza after fifteen years ;3). I just had to slide that Royai in with the introspection and parent-existential-crises.
> 
> Please leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed it! I love reading them and will, as always, try to reply to any comment or review left. Thank you all so much for reading, and I'll see you next Tuesday! <3


	24. and you'll see how radiant you are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They _knew._ And so did everyone else in this building, watching with wide eyes as Al stalked through, radiating a ferocious kind of protectiveness, a quiet, vicious sort of cold emanating from him and warning everyone away if they wanted to keep their heads. They watched as she and Roy flanked the trembling creature limping behind his little brother, glaring daggers at those who whispered and murmured and kept the tills of the gossip mill turning.
> 
> They watched as Ed, small and terrified, his hands shaking and eyes already brimming with tears, drifted through the halls like a ghost of his former self. There was no red coat, no brash yelling, no stomp of platform boots trimmed with steel and iron. No white gloves covered his hands, no braid held his hair. He seemed tiny, frail, his gaze fixed on the floor and his small body quivering like a leaf in a storm with every step. There was nothing to indicate that he was the same boy who’d laughed off their concerns and swanned into the rubble of the fallen building a year ago, and yet there was no mistaking the golden eyes, the equally golden hair, the automail arm and leg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Unstoppable](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K_QfEZRpR8o) by Camila Mora. Once again, this song is directed from Riza to Ed (who has a very bad time in this chapter) as encouragement and comfort. It's also from one of my favorite movies!

Everyone’s eyes were on them as they walked through the corridors to the gathering of generals within. Riza couldn’t help but feel like she and Roy were walking to their executions— and worst of all, that _Ed_ was walking to _his._

_They know._ Those two words had nearly destroyed all the progress they’d made over the past two months, might still be the catalyst for it if the meeting went badly. Riza had only been half-listening to Fuery as he babbled frantically into the phone, watching Ed shyly offer Roy the picture he’d worked so hard on for the past two days. At first, the words hadn’t made sense, a rambling stream of information that went in one ear and out the other, but bit by bit, it pulled into a coherent stream and bit by bit, it pulled her attention away.

No one had told, was the first thing she’d figured out, not even by accident. They’d all guarded this secret fiercely, protecting it from the greed of their superiors at all costs. No, the military had learned of Edward Elric’s survival from little more than a handful of rumors and sightings. A concerned neighbor heard Ed screaming at night and called the police to express those concerns. A passerby saw Al and Roy on a walk with a frightened, nervous boy with golden hair and told his wife about “the strange kid that looked like the alchemist that went missing”. The man whose dog had startled Ed during that first trip outside, upon hearing the rumors, remarked that Roy and Riza had called him by name to his friend at a bar, where a military officer just happened to be spending one of his off nights. The officer overheard and asked for the old search files from Breda, who couldn’t refuse without looking suspicious, and assured him he just wanted to check something. He brought it to the attention of _his_ superior, who contacted the officer above him and so on and so forth until it reached Bradley’s inner circle. The Fuhrer himself called to (politely, but in no uncertain terms) inform them that he was coming to East City with as many of his advisors and generals as could be spared, and that they were to bring Edward Elric to meet them and discuss what happened and what to do.

They _knew._ And so did everyone else in this building, watching with wide eyes as Al stalked through, radiating a ferocious kind of protectiveness, a quiet, vicious sort of cold emanating from him and warning everyone away if they wanted to keep their heads. They watched as she and Roy flanked the trembling creature limping behind his little brother, glaring daggers at those who whispered and murmured and kept the tills of the gossip mill turning.

They watched as Ed, small and terrified, his hands shaking and eyes already brimming with tears, drifted through the halls like a ghost of his former self. There was no red coat, no brash yelling, no stomp of platform boots trimmed with steel and iron. No white gloves covered his hands, no braid held his hair. He seemed tiny, frail, his gaze fixed on the floor and his small body quivering like a leaf in a storm with every step. There was nothing to indicate that he was the same boy who’d laughed off their concerns and swanned into the rubble of the fallen building a year ago, and yet there was no mistaking the golden eyes, the equally golden hair, the automail arm and leg.

Most looked horrified, sympathetic, murmuring sorrowfully about how _there shouldn’t have been a child in the military_ ( _I know,_ Riza wanted to scream, _I know, I know, no one knows that better than us, now)_ and _he was such a sweet boy, poor thing, he didn’t deserve this_ (did anyone? Did _anyone_ Riza knew deserve to be treated how Ed had for a _year?)._ Some looked indifferent, eyeing him with clinical detachment and vague interest, whispering _I wonder what happened_ ( _they broke him,_ she wanted to roar, and shake them until it looked like they _felt_ something) and _how bad was it if he looks like_ that?

The worst—the ones she wanted to _kill—_ grinned tauntingly and laughed and jeered amongst themselves, snickering _I always knew he was a weak little bastard (stronger than you,_ she ached to spit, _and better, and braver)_ and _awww, looks like the big scary Fullmetal Alchemist is just a little brat after all_ (and yet he had more kindness, more strength, more _maturity_ in this fragile state than half of her fellow soldiers). When they passed those ones, her fingers would always drift to her gun, and she saw Al tense with a snarl, Roy’s fingers hovering ready to snap. The only thing that stayed their collective hand was not the consequences attacking them would bring, but the fear it would bring Ed.

The meeting room the Fuhrer had reserved— _Grumman’s office,_ she noticed with a flicker of familiar distaste and suspicion; to take their commander’s room seemed pretentious and too obvious a power play for a man as conniving and sly as their country’s leader (though perhaps it was a suggestion from his circle of advisors and generals, who thought “subtlety” was unnecessary when you had power)—was separated from the corridor by massive oak doors. Something in Riza relaxed when she saw who waited in front of them: the rest of the team, Hughes included. Some of the tension around Al seemed to fade, too, but Ed whimpered audibly and pressed against Roy’s side.

She saw the indecision dance across Roy’s face—nudge Ed toward them, or hold him close and hide him away? In the end, he chose the former, guiding him toward the team that had helped him survive his return. “It’s okay,” he soothed when Ed flinched, eyes going wide with fright. “They helped you that first night, remember? They’re not going to hurt you.”

Ed whimpered again and shook his head. Riza wrestled for a moment with the absurd urge to sweep him up into her arms and sprint out of the military base, but before she could, Havoc was crouching in front of him. “Hey, Chief,” he greeted cheerily, as though nothing was wrong. “That’s a pretty kickass dragon you got there. How you feeling?”

Golden eyes blinked warily at him, brimming with tears as he clutched Ree more tightly to his chest. A moment passed, before he shook his head with a wordless, frightened whine, curling in on himself. Havoc made a sympathetic noise. “Not good, huh?” Ed shook his head again, hiding behind his bangs. It would have been adorable if it didn’t make Riza’s heart twist painfully in her chest.

“Well,” Havoc continued, glancing back at Breda, Fuery, and Falman, who all looked varying degrees of shaken (Riza could understand why; she’d told them about what Ed was like now, how fragile and scared he was, how easily hurt, but they’d never _seen_ it. Hearing about something and seeing it for yourself were two incredibly different things), “after this is over, we’re going to order a bunch of takeout and have a little party in the colonel’s office. You’re pretty much a thousand percent welcome whenever you feel up to it, okay?”

“W-we’d love if you came!” Fuery chimed in, the first to recover from the wave of _shock_ that had swept over the rest of the team.

“The food should be easy enough on your stomach, of course,” Falman added. “We consulted with Hughes to see what you could eat—”

“And I convinced them to add ice cream to the list, because who _doesn’t_ like a little bit of ice cream in the morning?” Hughes chirped. “Plus, it’ll give me an opportunity to show you all my new pictures of Elicia! She just got a new pair of mittens and they’re _adorable—”_

“He’s probably going to take pictures of you,” Breda informed Ed cheerfully, lowering his voice as if telling him a great secret. “Ever since he got here it’s been a fight between his protective dad side and his doting dad side.”

Riza couldn’t help raising her eyebrows at that, glancing at Roy. His face was impassive, watching Ed worriedly as he glanced between the five, looking more overwhelmed than panicked, but there was a flicker of _something_ in his gaze—concern? Annoyance? Confusion?

No, she realized after a moment, it was _jealousy._ Just the slightest flare of it, but he was _jealous_ of Hughes—perhaps at the ease with which caring for others came to him, for his experience with children, for _something._ She couldn’t pinpoint _what_ just yet, and they didn’t have the time right now to get into it, but she’d have to address that at some point.

Ed shivered, and her gaze snapped to him again as a cough shook his frail body. Sympathy and concern steadied her hands as she adjusted his scarf, wrapping it more securely around him. Golden eyes glazed with exhaustion blinked up at her, tears welling up in them. “D-don’ w-wanna,” he protested, his voice rasping painfully from his throat. “Wanna g-go h-home.” His scarred flesh hand wrapped around hers, trembling uncontrollably as he gazed up at her with nothing but trust and hope in his eyes—trusting her to make the pain go away, to make it all better ( _even though I’m throwing him into the lion’s den, even though we might not even be able to keep him with us after today, even though I can’t and I don’t know how to fix it)._

Guilt and self-loathing pulsed sickeningly in her chest. She was momentarily glad that she hadn’t had much to eat; the fury and fear and pity made for a nauseating combination and she was already swallowing down bile. “I know, _solnyshko,”_ she soothed, sweeping her thumb gently over his cheekbone. _So do I._ “It’ll be as quick as we can possibly make it, and Roy and Al and I will be here the whole time.” Even if they were ordered to leave, she would stay. Leaving him to face this alone simply wasn’t an option. “Do you think you’re ready?”

He wasn’t. She knew even before _asking_ that he wasn’t, that he never would be, but he clung to her hand and nodded anyway. She met Roy’s eyes, inclining her head in the slightest nod, and he did the same before shooing the rest of the team away with a mix of empty threats and genuine ones. Al looked between them, hesitating, before knocking reluctantly on the carved oak.

The doors opened, and they stepped inside.

Bradley’s inner circle sat before them, clustered around a long table like the one Riza recalled from his Central office. At the head of the table sat Bradley himself, looking almost _benign_ as the other generals eyed them with a look of collective disdain. Almost immediately, Ed tucked himself further behind her, shuddering as Al planted himself in front of them defiantly. On his other side, Roy rested a steadying hand on Ed’s shoulder. He looked calm, emotionless, a pillar of strength in the brewing storm, but Riza could see the worry bubbling beneath the surface, the twin of her own.

Bradley rose to his feet, and Riza couldn’t stop herself from tensing, couldn’t stop her eyes from zeroing in on the blade at his side, the one that was anything but decorative. The Fuhrer was no alchemist, but he was certainly a _threat—_ perhaps the most dangerous person in this room. If he attacked Ed (though logically she realized that was _highly_ unlikely), they might not be able to stop him—and even if they did, Ed might not survive it.

He didn’t reach for the blade, though. He simply clasped his hands together, the corners of his eyes seeming to crinkle slightly. “Alphonse Elric,” he greeted, before his gaze drifted to Ed, who shivered, looking even smaller than usual. If he was surprised by the state of the former Fullmetal Alchemist, he didn’t show it. “Fullmetal. Let me begin by saying that I’m glad you’re both alive and safe.”

_No thanks to you,_ Riza thought, narrowing her eyes. It was on Bradley’s orders that the search had ceased. If they hadn’t continued to disobey those orders, hadn’t kept searching for him, he might still be gone—might be dead or _worse. If Roy hadn’t been there when he called, if we hadn’t been fast enough…_

“Colonel Mustang, Lieutenant Hawkeye, I’m going to request that you both stay for the duration of the meeting.” Something tense and worried uncoiled in her at those words. She didn’t risk showing her relief on her face, in her posture, but it was certainly there. “I have questions for you both, after all, and you seem to be something of a stabilizing presence for Fullmetal.”

_You don’t know the half of it._ “Yes, sir,” she said, and Roy echoed her, equally formal and equally distant, both masking their true feelings to they couldn’t be used against them—or against Ed, or Al, or anyone they cared for.

Bradley nodded, apparently satisfied. “Fullmetal,” he began, and Riza forced herself not to stiffen as Ed flinched, staring at the floor, “please come forward. We need to discuss what happened and how to proceed.” Despite the addition of _please,_ there was no mistaking it for anything but an order.

Al tensed, moving aside just a few steps as Ed reluctantly (as if forcing himself to move, as if he was absolutely _terrified,_ as if letting go would mean dissolving into dust and shadows) pulled his hand from hers. Roy gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and he glanced up at the man, half-reaching out as if he was going to ask to be carried—before quickly retracting his hands and tottering forward, as unsteady as a newborn foal.

Bradley settled back into his seat, dark eyes appraising as Ed drew to a halt at the far end of the table. He tilted his head, watching with predatory stillness as the boy _(her son her son her son)_ fixed his gaze on the ground, one arm clutching Ree while the other worried at the hem of his white coat. His expression hadn’t changed since they walked into the room, but his gaze…

Had she been any less experienced, any less controlled, Riza would have shivered, would have grabbed Ed and marched right out and damn the consequences. Bradley looked like a panther sizing up his next target, trying to decide whether Ed was still a threat worth watching or if he was better reclassified as _prey._

“Fullmetal,” he started, and frowned. “Would you rather I call you Edward?”

Ed shook his head, gaze still fixed on the ground. Then, quietly: “F-Fullmetal’s f-fine.”

“Show some respect,” a man with a dark beard and beady gray eyes snarled. Ed flinched violently, a nearly inaudible whimper tugging from his throat. Roy stiffened, his eyes narrowing as a look of pure _hate_ swept across his face before smoothing to indifference again. Riza itched to reach for her gun as the man rose to his feet. “Look up when the Führer of Amestris speaks to y—”

Al _growled._ Riza wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t been standing there, hadn’t heard it with her own ears, but his soulfire eyes were blazing scarlet and his hands were fists at his sides. “Leave him _alone_.”

Bradley’s gaze flicked to Al, who met it unflinchingly, his fury palpable. She could practically _see_ the cogs turning in his brain, moving Al from the category of “intriguing but unimportant” to “potential threat”. For all that she worried, she wished she could applaud him, cheer him on. She and Roy couldn’t say anything, but Alphonse was a _civilian,_ albeit with some military sway. He could speak up, defend him, _protect_ his brother when they couldn’t, and there was little that the military could do about it.

Eventually Bradley nodded and said, “Apologies. These are special circumstances and we ought to treat them as such. Sit down, General Worth.”

The man gaped. Riza hid a flash of vindictive pleasure at the sight. “But—”

The Fuhrer’s eyes flashed. Something cold and dangerous settled over the room, like the feeling one got seconds before a snowstorm hit. “Sit. Down.”

General Worth sat down. Bradley’s attention drifted back to Ed, that cold _something_ now concentrated on his small frame. “Our first question is, I believe, our most vital.” He leaned forward ever-so-slightly. The urge to sweep Ed away and hide him from this room of vultures, these wolves bearing down on a terrified lamb, grew even stronger. “Can you still perform alchemy?”

Shit.

Ed hunched his shoulders, curling in on himself. “K-know how,” he whispered, his voice so faint that Riza could barely hear it despite being just a few feet away. “B-but—can’t. A-alchemy’s bad. Diso—d-diso—n-not allowed.” His eyes filled with tears. “D-don’t make m-me d-do it, p-please—”

A hint of displeasure flickered across Bradley’s face. Some of the generals exchanged glances, that sickening disdain only growing. Some of them looked almost _smug,_ Riza realized, and a hate stronger than any of her self-loathing rose within her, savage and cold and aching to unleash itself on these cruel, selfish people. “We’re not going to,” the Fuhrer promised, but he sounded more irritated than comforting. “Now, I’m going to assume that from the reports we’ve gotten, you’ve been staying with the Colonel for approximately two and a half months. What have you been doing for that period of time?”

Worry flickered in Riza’s chest. Were they trying to say _Roy_ was behind all this? He’d take the blame willingly if it meant Ed would be safe—both of them would—but she knew Ed wouldn’t _feel_ safe unless they were both with him. That much had become clear over the past few days.

“S-sleepin’,” Ed answered, furrowing his brow. “G-getting better. G-got a n-new arm. A-an’ practicing—” He paled, the color draining from his skin until all that was left was the fever-flush across his cheeks. “P-practicing r-reading,” he choked out after a moment, and Riza’s heart twisted as she stood there, hating herself for being unable to hold him, protect him, comfort him.

Roy moved forward before she could do anything, but froze in place as a gray-haired general narrowed his eyes. “Reading? What do you mean, _practicing reading?”_

“I think the better question at this point is what _happened?”_ another cut in, peering down through his glasses at Ed. There was no disdain on his face, but there was a look of cold, clinical curiosity that was almost worse—as if the trembling, frightened child standing before them was little more than a particularly interesting lab rat. “We were going to need a full account later, of course, but perhaps we ought to get it over now instead?”

Riza’s heart stopped in her chest as Bradley tilted his head, considering—and then nodded. _No—no, they can’t ask him that, he’s not ready, he’s going to panic—they_ tortured _him for a_ year, _can’t you see that? He’s scared enough as it is, and making him dig through all that—it’s_ cruel. “Very well. Fullmetal, please provide as complete an account as you can of what transpired while you were missing.”

_No, you can’t, you_ can’t—

Golden eyes went wide, round with shock and sudden terror before he shook his head wildly. “N-no,” he whispered, his voice the smallest she’d ever heard it.

“Pardon?” Roy twitched beside her as the sudden chill in the room intensified, Al’s eyes flaring with absolute _rage_ as Bradley’s tone took on a dangerous edge. _If he hurts him, I’ll kill him,_ she thought suddenly, fiercely, hand twitching toward the gun at her hip. _I don’t care what happens to me; if he tries to hurt Ed, I’ll rip his heart out myself—_

Ed trembled, swaying unsteadily for a moment before he shook his head again, whimpering wordlessly. His skin was snow-pale, even the flush of fever drained away from the sheer fright written across his face. Tears began to slide down his cheeks and Riza lurched forward with a choked gasp, aching to pull him into her arms. _“No—no, no no no no no no no—”_

Several of the generals were gaping as Ed dissolved into pure panic, his trembling hands grasping at his bangs and _pulling_ as a sob wracked his small frame—then another, and another as he tugged viciously at his hair. _“Nononononononono—”_

“This—this is ridiculous, Elric!” one sputtered, and Ed’s legs gave out with a _fwump,_ great, gasping sobs rasping from his raw throat. “Control yourse—”

“ _Control himself?”_ Al’s voice was incredulous. “Are you _serious?”_

“Mr. Elric, this does not concern you—”

_Wrong thing to say,_ Riza thought viciously, watching the cold fury in Al reach a point of no return as Roy broke away from her side and knelt by Ed, whispering to him soothingly. _Exactly the wrong thing to say. “Doesn’t concern me?”_ he repeated, his eyes blazing bloodred. “Doesn’t _concern_ me? He’s my _brother,_ and he’s hurt, and now he’s scared and upset because of _you!”_

The general who’d first suggested Ed tell them what happened bristled. “We were only asking—”

“You were asking him to recount a year of captivity.” Al’s voice was scornful, dripping poison and disgust that put the disapproval and annoyance in the men’s eyes to shame. “You were asking him to give you every little detail about a period he spent being tortured and brainwashed and treated like an _animal._ You were treating him like he should have gone through this whole ordeal and been perfectly _fine_ with it—like something’s _wrong_ with him for _not_ being fine now!”

“The Fullmetal Alchemist—”

Al’s eyes flashed. “But he’s _not the Fullmetal Alchemist,”_ he said with a sort of vicious pleasure. “Not anymore. You declared him missing in action, and then _dead,_ didn’t you? You told me that I could choose whether they retired his title or not, because my brother was _clearly_ dead and gone, and I said _no,_ because he was alive, but you stripped it from him anyway.” His rage was a palpable thing, colder than Bradley’s gaze and deadlier than winter. “You _abandoned_ him and then have the nerve to tell him that he’s not allowed to be _hurt?_ To have to deal with all the _shit_ they did to him, to get over it _just like that_ —and for what? Because he had some stupid title that, oh right, _you took from him?_ Because _before_ those psychopaths spent a year ripping him apart like there was a fucking prize at stake for it, he was strong? What the hell gives you the _right?”_

“We didn’t—” one started weakly.

Al _laughed._ It wasn’t his usual laugh, bright as spring and warm as summer. It was jagged, bitter as poison and every bit as deadly. “You didn’t what? Didn’t _know?”_ He swept an arm toward his older brother, cradled tightly in Roy’s arms and shaking like it was winter in the heart of Briggs. “Don’t insult my intelligence, General. Anyone with eyes can see that someone hurt him. Passerby who have no idea who he _is_ can tell something is up. So, either you’re blind, and I apologize for my rudeness toward you, or you _ignored it_ because you saw someone small and easy to hurt and decided to be a bully.”

The entire table was gaping at him now, except for Bradley, who merely arched an eyebrow. Al was practically trembling with agitation, clearly itching to tear into them further. Eventually, their gazes swung to Roy (and to Ed, who tried to make himself even smaller), and one stammered, “C-Colonel, control your subordinate!”

Roy’s gaze flicked to them, something fiery and full of spite blazing within them. “Al’s a civilian,” he drawled, rising to his feet, Ed still huddled in his arms. “I have no more right to give him orders than any of you do. _Sir.”_ There was no mistaking the last word for anything but an insult. Riza didn’t have it in her to worry over his lack of restraint—not when she was so close to putting a bullet in the Fuhrer’s head as it was.

“Sirs,” she said, watching with no small amount of disgust as their collective gaze snapped to her, full of hope—looking for an ally. _Keeping looking._ “I believe it would be best for us to take our leave now and continue at a later date—with just myself and the Colonel.”

She let them see her fingers brushing over the hilt of her gun, let them remember just who she was. The Hawk’s Eye, military prodigy, the best shot of the hundreds and thousands of active-duty officers that served Amestris. Known for never missing a shot, for making her kills without batting an eye. The blood on her hands alone matched that of some of the most destructive State Alchemists in the Ishvalan genocide.

It wasn’t something she was proud of, but right now, it was an armor wrapped around these two children, a shield for her friend, a sword in her hand. It was a legend and a monster, and she arched an eyebrow as they stared at her, reminding them what they’d created. What they stood to unleash if they crossed them.

To her surprise, Bradley _smiled._ It was a shockingly ordinary smile, the smile of a man who’d just lost a game of checkers to a good friend. “Of course. Extend my apologies to Edward once he’s more stable.”

“Of course, sir.”

She saluted as Roy carried Ed out, followed by a deathly quiet Alphonse. Riza held the salute until they were gone, then dropped it—and smiled at them. “Ed stays with us.” That roaring, snarling creature in her chest, the _thing_ that awoke whenever Ed and Al were upset or in danger, purred in agreement. “No matter what you decide in the end, he stays with _us.”_

Bradley raised an eyebrow. “And if he doesn’t?”

“Then the Flame Alchemist will be the least of your worries.”

She didn’t mean herself, though they _would_ answer to her if Ed was separated from them. She meant _Alphonse,_ and the absolute _hell_ he would unleash if he felt that they were targeting his brother. She’d glimpsed the killer instinct inside him, that cold, ruthless _something_ that awoke when his brother was in danger, and she had no doubt he’d gladly nurture it to its deadly fruition if it meant protecting him. And if he even got an _inkling_ that Ed was being inadequately cared for by whoever these men chose…

_This precious room would be nothing but rubble._ She tried not to show her delight at the thought.

Bradley eyed her thoughtfully. “Indeed, Lieutenant Hawkeye. The boy stays with you two, then. Dismissed.”

Riza nodded curtly, that creature within her growling its approval, and walked out of that room, away from the people who so gladly stepped on those weaker than them, who believed mercy had to be earned and the only people who deserved kindness were those who were perfect. She closed the doors behind her, the cold of their apathy and egos vanishing as she exhaled, squared her shoulders, and walked away from that emptiness. Someday, she and Roy would tear all that down, would create a period of accountability and empathy, where all people were treated with the respect due to them as human beings and no one had to be afraid that they weren’t strong enough. Someday, they would find a way to do penance for the evils they’d wrought and the pain they’d caused.

But right now, all she wanted to hold her family for a long, long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da! No, Ed's _They_ haven't found him yet, but the military has...and is just as unsympathetic as our favorite accidental family feared. Luckily, Al isn't going to leave his brother to the wolves, and their cruelty has just put an even bigger target on their backs--and the Hawk's Eye never misses a shot. No one's getting to Ed while they and the Flame Alchemist are around!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thank you all for reading--and for 8,000 hits! As always, leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed it, and I'll see you next week with some fluff before the angst sets in again ;)


	25. never gonna walk away, always gonna have your back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he was _better,_ he thought, he wouldn’t have started crying when Roy and Riza left again. He wouldn’t have needed _an hour_ to calm down and get it into his head that no, them leaving didn’t mean he was going to be all alone forever and they didn’t want him anymore. He wouldn’t still be convinced that one of them would get hurt, or be scared that they wouldn’t come back. He wouldn’t be fighting off tears (failing to, most of the time) every time he wondered what would happen if Bradley hurt them, if he had to go somewhere else, if someone took him away—and since his mind kept wandering there at nearly every opportunity, he’d been on the verge of tears for almost the whole day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ed wants to be happy so bad, poor baby.
> 
> [Never Gonna Let You Down](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nr8lXUUpkzo) by Colbie Caillat

Everything was scary, and Ed hated himself for it. Hated himself for being so _weak,_ for caving to the awful, cold generals with their disapproving stares and unwillingness to understand when Before-Ed would have laughed in their faces. Hated himself for bursting into tears at that terrifying interview even though he promised himself that night that he’d answer all their questions no matter what. Hated himself for making Roy and Riza so reluctant to leave for the make-up appointment that he couldn’t attend because he was too im—immat— _childish_ to face the Fuhrer without panicking all over again.

Hated himself for everything, really, because no part of this _wasn’t_ his fault. He was the spark that lit this stupid fire and now it kept getting bigger and bigger and he kept burning and burning because he was too stupid, too broken to put himself back together and put the fire out. He caused problems for Al and Winry and Roy and Riza and Roy’s entire team and couldn’t _stop,_ couldn’t keep himself from being so helpless and stupid and scared all the time. He couldn’t remember how to read fast enough and he couldn’t figure out that darkness and loud sudden noises and extra-hot things didn’t mean pain and punishment, his pain tolerance was next to nothing and he cried at the drop of a hat and he _couldn’t fix himself._

He wanted to. He wanted to be better _so badly,_ to be—not like Before-Ed, because Before-Ed was _Bad_ and that was why They’d taken him in the first place. But he wanted to be stronger, braver, less _frightened._ He wanted to be able to get through a day without crying and go outside without needing to hold someone’s hand—and he wanted so badly to _read_ again. Not alchemy texts ( _alchemy badbadbad not allowed not allowed),_ but just _anything._ Books about galaxies far, far away like Roy read to him and books about dragons like Ree and books about history and animals and astronomy and _anything_ he could get his hands on. Sometimes he made lists of things he wanted to read when ( _ififif)_ he learned it all again, doodled newspapers and books and pamphlets in his notebook, stars and spaceships and wizard hats. But the lack of progress would make him cry, and then he’d be back where he started, with everything he wanted to be light-years out of reach once more.

If he was _better,_ he thought, he wouldn’t have started crying when Roy and Riza left again. He wouldn’t have needed _an hour_ to calm down and get it into his head that no, them leaving didn’t mean he was going to be all alone forever and they didn’t want him anymore. He wouldn’t still be convinced that one of them would get hurt, or be scared that they wouldn’t come back. He wouldn’t be fighting off tears (failing to, most of the time) every time he wondered what would happen if Bradley hurt them, if he had to go somewhere else, if someone took him away—and since his mind kept wandering there at nearly every opportunity, he’d been on the verge of tears for almost the whole day.

Part of him—a part that sounded a little like Riza, with her soothing manner and uncanny ability to talk him through whatever was upsetting him until it was a little less frightening—whispered that it was okay not to be perfect again. Whispered that it wasn’t his fault that the generals had scared him, or that Roy and Riza had to face the Fuhrer alone, that he was making a little bit of progress every day and he was a million times better than when they’d first found him. And maybe—maybe that voice was right. Maybe what it said was true, and it was Their fault for hurting him and not his for deserving it. But that voice wasn’t _enough,_ not when he was alone and his pare—caretakers were in danger and it was _all his fault_

 _But you’re not alone,_ that voice reminded him, as he huddled on that leather couch, breathing in the comforting scent of _homehomehome_. _Al’s here. Al won’t ever leave._ Despite everything, despite knowing that Al had maybe searched the hardest of all of them (and the fact that they’d kept searching _every day he was gone_ brought him to tears all over again), there’d been a—a seed of _doubt,_ a gnawing worry that maybe Al would decide this new Ed was too broken. Was too scared, too breakable, too shy and stupid and childish, was too much _work_ , and that he’d leave him behind so he could find a way to get his body back. Ed wouldn’t have begrudged him it for a second, but—he thought he might have broken beyond repair if Al decided he didn’t want him.

But Al yelled at the _Fuhrer of Amestris_ for him, risked going against the most powerful men in the country. And if Al did _that_ for him, if Al openly threatened people who could easily make all their lives hell to _protect him,_ then there was no way he was leaving.

Ed watched as Al hummed along to the song on the radio, stirring a pot of soup from the same recipe Havoc made for him over two months ago. He didn’t look dangerous now—didn’t even really look _intimidating,_ not to Ed. Not when he was poking at what Ed thought was probably an onion with a look of great suspicion, swaying cheerfully to the music as his soulfire eyes glowed warm and bright. He looked like the idea of a gentle giant personified—a real-life knight in shining armor.

Except Ed knew Al could be downright _deadly_ if he wanted to be—if he was defending someone he loved, or who he believed deserved it. People didn’t believe Before-Ed when he said Al won all their fights ( _that_ was another thing he wished he still had the strength to do—spar with Al, even if fighting was Bad, because Al would protect him from Them if They found and tried to hurt him again), but his little brother had a ruthlessness and a killer instinct to him that Ed had never been able to repl—replica—that he’d never had himself. Before-Ed was good at _acting_ scary and being loud and threatening, but Al hid how dangerous he was beneath kindness and a gentle shield.

And Al really _was_ kind and gentle—the best person Ed knew, the best person in the whole _world,_ really. He was slow to anger, but when he _did_ get angry, he was _scary,_ even as a kid. Ed could still remember when Winry had told them that Michael Fisk had been picking on her, that he’d stolen one of her letters from her mom and dad and stomped all over it. He’d been shouting and angry and ready to fight, but Al had gone quiet, some sort of light flickering out in his bronze eyes.

The next day, Michael Fisk had tripped over his own feet four times and walked into a wall. Over the course of the week, he accidentally toppled a shelf (though he swore up and down he hadn’t touched it), lost his shoes in the river, gotten cut on a fencepost and fallen into a pile of manure. Over the next month, people became convinced he was cursed. The whole thing culminated into him openly screaming at Winry in the schoolyard, convinced that she was responsible for this, and getting suspended, reprimanded, grounded for two months and made to apologize to her by his parents. Al never told, but there was a satisfaction in his eyes whenever the “curse” acted up that convinced Ed that either his brother really _had_ cursed him, or Al was just extraordinarily good at masterminding dangerous “accidents.”

 That Al…that Al might actually _kill_ the Fuhrer if he thought Ed was hurt. That Al would probably never be a suspect, either, because one flash of those innocent eyes and no one considered him a threat. Ed loved him for it—for how much he cared about people, for the lengths he was willing to go for the ones he loved. Even if it was a little scary sometimes.

There was nothing scary about his little brother right now, though—as he dumped the cut carrots and onions into the soup pot with a crow of triumph, before letting out a delighted cry as a new song started on the radio. He rushed to turn it up, and Ed blinked at the jaunty piano tune that poured out of it as Al bounced slightly, metal feet clanking with surprising softness.

 _“My, my!”_ the radio sang, and Al chirped right along with it, bouncing— _dancing,_ Ed realized, his eyes widening (when was the last time either of them _danced?)_ —back over to the soup pot. _“At Waterloo, Napoleon did surrender.”_

His voice was—well, not necessarily _good,_ but it was strong. _Confident._ Ed watched in golden, shimmering awe as his little brother bopped happily to the music. Confident but imperfect. Confident _in_ his imperfections, _proud_ of them—

In a way Ed wasn’t. In a way he’d never really been, even—even _Before._ He was—even now (which was why his drawing for Roy took so long, and why doodles ended up turning into something more detailed than he wanted them to be, and why trying to fix himself was _so frustrating)—_ a perfectionist. Doing things wrong _felt_ wrong, even though everyone said mistakes were something that was _supposed_ to happen, and it was especially bad now when _everything_ he did was wrong. Or, at least, not good enough—not when compared to what he was before.

He watched in awe and—and a little _jealousy_ as Al grabbed the wooden spoon, using it like a microphone in between stirs. He _hated_ the traitorous envy flickering within him at the sight of his brother—what, having _fun?_ Being a _kid_ for once, like he was _supposed_ to be? _It’s your fault that he’s not happy like this all the time,_ he scolded himself fiercely, scrubbing one hand across his watering eyes, sniffling quietly and praying Al wouldn’t hear it. Despite his best efforts, the tears started falling, the scolding voice going from something like Before-Ed’s to _Theirs,_ cold and wicked and delighted by his pain. _What gives you the right to be jealous? Do you want him to be sad and upset and worried again, you monster?_

_You’re already the worst older brother in the world for taking his humanity. Now you want to take his happiness too?_

He buried his face in his hands, whimpering under his breath. No, he didn’t—he didn’t want Al to not be happy! He just…he wanted to be happy, too. He wanted to be brave and strong and fearless, and he wanted Roy and Riza (and _Winry_ , but Winry was all the way in Risembool and he couldn’t call without Al knowing) here with him, and he wanted Ree and he wanted—

He wanted to have a _good day_ for once.

He’d had—he’d had a _few_ good ones. The day Roy came back, and when Riza helped him name Ree, and when they didn’t laugh at him for asking them to read to him, but they’d all been—been good afternoons _,_ or good _mornings_ or _evenings_ or _hours,_ because he’d always get scared and something would go wrong and whatever happiness he tried to pull free of the pain and fear would vanish like smoke between his fingers. But there’d never been a day that was good and _stayed_ good, and he wanted _so badly_ to just have _one._ To be able to think and feel and breathe without panicking again, to feel like a person, to be—

To be _happy._

“Brother, lunch is ready!”

Ed jerked out of his thoughts at the sound, hands opening and closing uselessly as he ached for Ree. He’d left her in his bedroom this morning after bolting out in a panic, clinging to Roy and Riza and unable to speak through his terror, and he hadn’t felt strong enough to manage the walk back to get her…or brave enough to ask Al to help him. He wished he had now, though—the world was so much softer when he was holding her, like she really was a dragon and a shield and a protector. It felt less big, less loud, less _scary,_ and it was exhausting to be afraid all the time. Even if he couldn’t really do anything else.

He made himself meet his brother’s eyes, resisting the urge to slide his fingers into his mouth and chew on them. Riza and Roy always looked _sad_ whenever he did that, sad and angry and all sorts of awful, painful emotions, and he _knew_ it was a babyish thing to do, but without Ree—without her, it helped. Sort of. It kept him from breaking _more_ in the cell, at least.

Al beamed at him, and the ever-present fear in his chest eased as he tried to pull his lips into a quavering smile of his own. Hesitantly, he reached a hand up to ask to be carried—

_Weakweakweakweakweak don’t deserve it don’t deserve any of it monster monster nonono—_

Tears sprang to his eyes and he ducked his head with a whimper. Self-loathing, making his stomach turn and destroying what little appetite he regained, burned through him as Al’s smile wavered. Hands—hands that Ed turned into _weapons_ with his stupidity, hands that no longer had the warmth of flesh, hands that _he_ destroyed (hands that were broad and warm and kind despite everything, that smelled of metal and leather and cinnamon-sweet _safety)_ —wrapped around his, Al kneeling to look him in the eye. Before he could stop himself, Ed shifted so that his bangs covered his face, hiding it from view, from _punishment (face hidden vitals protected safesafesafe)._

He waited to be asked what was wrong, to be re—rebu—mocked and scorned and laughed at when he said he didn’t know. Al would never do that to him, he _knew_ that, but his heart was pounding out of his chest and the tears were rising _fasterfasterfaster_ and he was cracking crumbling _breaking again—_

Al pulled him to his feet (Ed stumbled, swallowed the urge to cry out, to crumple into a mess of tears and fright), hands still wrapped around his, and started to sway. The music played on behind them, the song about—about some kind of battle, maybe—came to an end, another bouncy sort of tune following. Al found the rhythm, and Ed squeaked as his brother gently spun him, eyes widening as he was let go. His brother’s soulfire eyes were bright with warmth and _love,_ and he swore he was grinning. “Try it, Brother!”

Try…try _what?_ He furrowed his brow in confusion, fingers worrying at his lip as he shuffled back a little bit. “D-don’…don’ understand, A-Al,” he whispered after a moment, blinking up at him.

“Dancing, silly.” Al bounced a little more as if to demo—demonstra—show him what he meant. The strange, equally bouncy music picked up, the singer saying something about—about love, Ed thought, only it was a happier song than all the love songs that were usually on the radio. There was nothing about broken hearts and suffering and missing people, just a—a little dance tune that was kind of… _fun._

But—but _dancing._ Dancing like _Al_ was, off-beat and proud, strong and—and _wrong_ at the same time, that wasn’t—he couldn’t _do_ that. He could barely walk as it was, and everything _hurt_ when he moved, and what if— “C-can’t, Al,” he croaked over the rising panic, metal fingers twisting in the soft fabric of his shirt as his flesh hand slipped into his mouth. He bit down hard on his fingers, trying to quell the tears. “W-wha’ i-if I—i-if I m-mess up?” _What if They know and They find me or I do something wrong and Roy and Riza find out, what if they don’t like me anymore or I break something or hurt you or—_

His brother’s hands wound around his, carefully dislodging his automail hand from the cloth before he could rip it, tugging his fingers from his mouth. He whimpered as they were pulled free—without the pain to clear his head, everything was going fuzzy again and he wanted to just collapse and cry for a long, long while. His gaze fixed on the carpet, on the scars on his flesh foot and the intri—intrica—complicated designs of the automail one. He watched them blur into a mess of colors, felt the tears start to roll down his face. _M’sorry, Al._

“You _can’t_ mess up.” His eyes widened, and a frightened whine escaped his throat as Al gently tilted his chin up. His brother’s warm, soft soulfire eyes met his, firm in their resolve. “Because there’s no wrong way to do it. You just have fun with it, see?” Gently, he tugged Ed back, pulling him closer to the little radio. He could only stumble along as his little brother spun him again, still moving a little-off-beat but smiling encouragingly at him.

_Fun._

When…when was the last time he had fun?

He had—he had good moments, and things that made him happy, and things he wanted to keep doing (like drawing, and going for walks when it was rainy so he could _feel_ that he was free of the cell, and getting strawberry ice cream when he had a good day), but fun—when was the last time he did something just for fun? Just to _play?_

It wasn’t…it wasn’t even _Before,_ he realized. Everything had been for the Stone, for the military, for Winry and Al, for Mom. He hadn’t done anything purely for—for _fun_ in years, really…and Al hadn’t either. _Because you hurt him and dragged him off on this wild goose chase and it’s your fault, your fault, all your fault._

But Al—Al was trying to have fun _now. Was_ having fun, before Ed ruined it ( _just like you ruin everything, you’re a monster and poisonous and you hurt everyone you touch)_ , and was—was trying to get _Ed_ in on it now. To let _him_ have fun, too, like he _wasn’t_ the whole reason that Al couldn’t breathe or sleep or eat, the whole reason that he couldn’t be a _kid_ anymore.

He didn’t _deserve_ to have fun, but—but _Al_ did. And Al wanted him to try and have fun, and _not_ trying would probably upset him, so—maybe he could _try_.

For Al, he could try.

He bounced hesitantly on his toes to the beat of the music, keeping his gaze fixed on his feet so he doesn’t have to see the inevitable disappointment in his little brother’s eyes. Al laughed and he tried not to flinch— _not making fun of you, not laughing_ at _you stupidstupidstupid—_ before squeaking in alarm as he let go of his hands. “N-no—” _Don’t go don’t go scaredscaredscared please don’t go._

“Okay,” Al soothed quickly, and then his hands were back around Ed’s, guiding him, protecting him. “It’s okay, I’m right here, I promise. You’re doing great.”

 _Doing great doing great doing great._ He clutched the words to his chest as tightly as he held Ree, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to follow the music as best he could. It wasn’t a hard beat, really, but—but doing things _wrong_ was _badbadbad_ and meant _hurt._

_Even if there’s no wrong?_

His eyes flew open as Al started to sing again, cheerful and bright (even if his voice was almost worse than before, he thought, and nearly giggled). _“Hail, with it baby, ‘cause you’re fine and you’re mine and you, look so divine—”_

“Spin!” Ed didn’t realize he’d demanded it of his little brother until he was already twirling, still swaying to the beat. Al laughed again as he stumbled, but there was nothing mean in it at all (not that Ed had really ever thought his brother could ever be mean to him), taking his hand again as he bounced back over to him, his free gauntlet grabbing the wooden spoon off the counter.

“ _Come and get your love,”_ he sang into it, before offering it to Ed. He considered it for a moment, blinking, before shaking his head furiously. Dancing and jumping around was one thing, but making noise—that was another, and he didn’t think he could do it without panicking. Al just smiled gently, ruffling his hair before crooning, _“Come and get your lo-o-o-ove,”_ again, and Ed giggled aloud this time.

The sound shocked him still—still and _silent,_ his eyes widening as a hand instinctively crept to cover his mouth. _Laughing bad laughing_ bad _gonna hurt gonna punish m’sorrysorrysorry noisy bad not allowed—_ He shook his head, trembling. When—when was the last time he’d _laughed?_ He did it sometimes, quietly now, but never— _loud._ Never like _that._ Never loud enough to bounce off the walls and reach the corners of the room, to be—to really be _heard._ And being loud was bad and _dangerous_ and They’d know, They’d _hurt him—_

“Ed?”

He jolted at his brother’s words, as Al gazed down at him worriedly, hands hovering just within reach as the music played on forgotten. “Are you okay? We can stop, you should probably eat and have a nap anyways—”

“N-no,” he whispered, shaking his head as he tried to quell the panic in his chest. Nervously, he reached up toward Al, seeking those warm gauntlets again. “K-keep—k-keep d-dancin’. F-felt better, j-jus’—s-startled.” And it was _true—_ he’d felt _good,_ for a brief moment, felt _happy._ The movement, however silly, was—was _helping,_ and even if he couldn’t bring himself to even _try_ to be loud yet, it was a tiny, tiny step forward. “M-more music?” he pleaded quietly. “P-please, Al?”

_I want…I want to have fun. To be happy. To have a good day._

_Can I try again?_

Al still looked worried, and that self-hate burning inside Ed rose _higher_ at the sight, because his little brother shouldn’t be _worrying_ all the time, he should be taking _care_ of him (he was a _failure)—_ but then his brother smiled, and that tight coil of _fearhateloss_ in his chest unwound, leaving him swaying with relief. “Of course, Brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the brother bonding! And Al's silly Peter Quill-esque music taste ;) lots of wholesome brother dancing today! Leave a comment and a kudos if you enjoyed it, and we'll dive back into the angst next week >:3 Love you all!
> 
> Music in this chapter:  
> Waterloo by ABBA  
> Come And Get Your Love by Redbone (popularized by Guardians of the Galaxy)


	26. weigh the choice to live or die and don't know which is worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, logically, it made sense that Bradley wanted Ed to do an interview of some kind letting the world know he was back. Logically, telling the country that the State Alchemist they’d mourned was alive would be a huge boost for morale in civilians as well as military outside of East City. Logically, having him do a brief interview that would be sent to as many major publications as there were in Amestris was probably the most humane way for Ed and the easiest way to get the news out. Logically, it all worked out.
> 
> _But._
> 
> But Ed was terrified of new people and even more scared of talking to them, especially about whatever happened to him over the past year. But Ed was sick to the point of tears, every movement bringing him pain, and still distraught over what happened with Bradley and the assorted generals. But Ed was scared to death and didn’t want to come out to talk to the increasingly-concerned reporter (who, he had to admit, was surprisingly accommodating and understanding) and wanted to be left _alone—_ and that was the one thing Roy couldn't give him right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [2007](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JrNxH1VCg_s) by Beth Crowley.
> 
> Lotta angst coming up, folks. Buckle those seatbelts.

“Please come out, Ed.”

A pair of golden eyes, wide and wet with tears unshed, blink up at him, before the poor kid sniffled and scooted under the bed even more. “N-no,” he whimpered, his voice cracking painfully. He ducked his head, hands coming up to cover it protectively. _“Noooo…”_

Roy’s heart cracked in his chest at the pitiful sound. He wanted nothing more than to tell him it was okay, that he could stay there as long as he liked and that he didn’t have to come out, but…well, this was something that Bradley ( _goddamn motherfucking_ Bradley) had insisted on. If it didn’t happen, Ed couldn’t stay with them and would fall on the mercy (or lack thereof) of the state. And if Ed was taken away from them, thrown into a hospital or an orphanage or some faraway place with people who didn’t _care_ about him, who hurt him and humiliated him and didn’t even _try_ to understand what he needed…

Well, Roy would probably lose his mind. Riza would subsequently lose _her_ mind because while she usually kept him in check, all rationality went out the window with her when it came to Ed. _Al…_ Al would probably go on a murder spree, overthrow the government all on his own, and be back with Ed in his arms in time for dinner—and neither Roy nor Riza would say a goddamn thing about it, because hey, they kind of had it coming.

Not the most rational response to…any of this, especially when they knew firsthand the dangers of disobedience, when they’d been playing the long game for nearly a decade at this point. A year ago, Roy wouldn’t have dreamed of showing his hand just because Fullmetal was in danger, because Fullmetal was _Fullmetal_ and he could take care of himself and Al besides. But then he’d vanished, and it had become quite clear that (genius or not, his currently impaired reading aside) the Fullmetal Alchemist was still a _kid—_ and that the frightened, broken ghost of a boy who’d called him sobbing from the pain and the fear absolutely _could not_ handle everything in the world and, moreover, _shouldn’t have to._

That was on Roy, of course, for believing a little too much and caring too little. That was on him for dumping the weight of the world on the shoulders of a twelve-year-old boy and leaving him to whatever dangers Amestris could throw at him. That was _his fault,_ and so was his capture, his torture, his _pain._ The least he could do was keep him from getting hurt again. From being _taken_ again.

…And he was attached. Really, _really_ attached to the point where he had a dozen little nicknames for the kid and read to him at night and would kill anyone who even remotely upset him without hesitation. Again, not exactly a logical response, but logic went out the window entirely when Edward Elric was involved. _Especially_ when someone made him cry.

Sometimes he wondered if it was some sort of supernatural ability of Ed’s, that strange way of enticing someone into being willing to burn the world down for him. It wasn’t intentional or remotely deliberate, and he didn’t think Ed was even _aware_ of how far the three other people in this apartment were willing to go for him. Wasn’t aware that they considered him anything but a burden, that they all thought he was well worth whatever challenges they might face because of what had been done to him. In fact, Ed was convinced that he _wasn’t_ worth it, and though he clung to them desperately, he believed wholeheartedly that they’d be better off without him.

It broke his heart, and made him want to break something else, but he’d have to settle for imagining Al tearing the Fuhrer to shreds with his bare hands.

He shouldn’t be this angry, really. They’d gotten a better deal than he could have hoped for—no mandatory assessments or visits for several months, paid time off for Riza (though he had to start going back to work more regularly, seeing as he’d been out for almost two months), no inquiries into Al’s status. They’d agreed on Ed having four months of recovery time before they assessed if he was still truly capable of or willing to do alchemy—and, if he failed that assessment, another six months until the next one.

It was…fair, which was more than he’d expected from Bradley when faced with an asset turned useless. It was even _lenient,_ giving Ed plenty of time to make some major steps toward a full recovery. Roy had almost felt _good_ about it as they continued to work out the finer points of what to do with the thoroughly shattered Fullmetal Alchemist.

And then Bradley had pointed out his PR value, and it all went to shit.

From a purely logical standpoint, what Bradley was saying made sense, if a _terrible,_ detached sort of sense. The Fullmetal Alchemist was maybe the one State Alchemist who people _really_ thought of as a hero, titles aside. Hell, they even called him _The Hero of the People._ Even those who didn’t like him respected him and his tenacity, his pride, his generosity. Someone so beloved by the people when the military itself was so often at odds with them was vital to ensuring the public opinion remained flattering—or at least mildly positive, which was a struggle when they were so often in combat with nearly everyone around them.

The other State Alchemists didn’t have a particularly good track record, either. The Iron Blood Alchemist, while effective, was cold and cruel. The Sewing-Life Alchemist was weak and only worked in research. The Strongarm Alchemist was powerful and kind, but rarely taken seriously. The Tectonic Alchemist, for all her deadly competence, was reckless and ruthless and enjoyed battle too much. The Red Lotus Alchemist was frankly insane, and he was beyond grateful that the man was rotting away behind bars. Several others had gone rogue or missing, like Douglas and the old Silver Alchemist. Roy, as the Flame Alchemist and Hero of Ishval, was the only one with a reputation even mildly close to that of the Fullmetal Alchemist, and he couldn’t make up the difference.

So, logically, it made sense that Bradley wanted Ed to do an interview of some kind letting the world know he was back. Logically, telling the country that the State Alchemist they’d mourned was alive would be a huge boost for morale in civilians as well as military outside of East City. Logically, having him do a brief interview that would be sent to as many major publications as there were in Amestris was probably the most humane way for Ed and the easiest way to get the news out. Logically, it all worked out.

_But._

But Ed was terrified of new people and even more scared of talking to them, especially about whatever happened to him over the past year. But Ed was sick to the point of tears, every movement bringing him pain, and still distraught over what happened with Bradley and the assorted generals. But Ed was scared to death and didn’t want to come out to talk to the increasingly-concerned reporter (who, he had to admit, was surprisingly accommodating and understanding) and wanted to be left _alone—_ and that was the one thing Roy couldn’t give him right now.

He kind of wanted to kill Bradley. He _definitely_ wanted to kill Bradley, but he’d settle for fantasizing about disemboweling him while he tried to coax his nervous kid out from under the bed.

“I know you’re scared, kiddo,” he soothed, kneeling beside the bed and reaching out a hand, a rush of gratitude hitting him as that tiny, scarred one reached back and wound brittle, breakable fingers around it. He gave it a gentle squeeze, and Ed squeezed back with a quiet whine, those teary golden eyes bright in the shadows beneath the bed. “It’s okay to be scared, but Miss Carter isn’t going to hurt you.”

Not that he could be sure of that. Not that he could be sure of _anything_ when it came to Bradley’s machinations, especially when it came to his subordinates—to his _son._ It was what made him such a frustrating opponent, and why he needed to be a scalpel instead of a sledgehammer when dealing with him, to pick and choose his battles and what parts he wanted to chip away at before slicing them off so cleanly and quickly his target didn’t know they were gone. He was unpredictable and strange and played it off with a near-jovial exterior when dealing with grunt soldiers and civilians, but Roy knew how cold he was, how apathetic he was. The end _always_ justified the means with Bradley, even if no one else knew what the end _was_.

Unfortunately, right now the _end_ was using the Hero of the People’s PR value to the military’s advantage, and the means were Ed’s comfort, safety, and sanity. All of which Roy had to risk in order to keep him alive and with people who cared about him. Maybe once he’d be wondering how he could spin this _against_ Bradley, how he could make himself look better in the eyes of the people, but not right now. He wouldn’t be able to make many moves on that particular goal for a while, but he didn’t really care.

Ed let out a fresh sob and his attention was jerked back to the frightened boy as his tiny hand tightened around Roy’s. “B-but—c-can’t talk r-right, a-an’—d-don’t wanna don’ w-wanna d-don’ wanna _p-please,_ Roy—”

His heart twisted violently, painfully as he swept his thumb over that terrible burn scar. He’d do _anything_ for Ed, give him everything he had, every second of his time, every breath in his lungs if he was able. But this _one thing_ Ed was asking of him now was the _one thing_ Roy couldn’t give without also giving Ed away to somewhere beyond his little brother’s reach. Worst of all, he couldn’t even _postpone_ the damn thing; Bradley had told him that Miss Allegra Carter, a freelance reporter (thankfully renowned for her discretion and understanding nature, given that she had a reputation for handling sensitive stories), would be coming over two days after the meeting and the interview was to be done by the following day at the absolute latest…and now she was in the sitting room, waiting patiently (if awkwardly) for him to coax the kid out.

“Colonel Mustang?”

Or, apparently, poking her head into Ed’s room to see what was going on. Which he couldn’t blame her for, given it had been quite some time since her arrival and she likely had other commitments, but Ed started to cry even harder and he winced. Carter winced as well, her eyes sympathetic behind her neat rectangular glasses. “It’s not going well, I see.”

“I’m sorry—” he wasn’t, not really, and he knew she could tell by the way she raised her eyebrows, but she didn’t seem all that surprised “—new people scare him a bit and Bradley sending you doesn’t exactly help your case.” _For any of us, really,_ he admitted, giving Ed’s hand a gentle squeeze again. After that disastrous meeting, any of Al’s remaining confidence in the military was shot, and he and Riza had lost their trust in their leaders after Ishval.

“I understand.” If it was anyone else, he might have snapped that no, she didn’t, but Carter spoke in a voice that brooked little argument—and, really, if anyone would understand, it was someone who interviewed all manner of sensitive cases and presented their stories in ways that kept them calm enough to keep speaking for the duration of the interview. Even knowing this, Roy was mildly surprised when she plopped down beside him. “We can do it here, if that’s preferable. It’s not an interrogation; he doesn’t have to be sitting across from me if he feels safer down there.”

Ed’s shuddering sobs skipped and stuttered like a broken record, the flash of a metal hand sweeping across wet golden eyes. Roy mouthed _“thank you”_ at her, grateful for the small gesture of good faith. He squeezed Ed’s hand to get the boy’s attention. “Is that okay, Ed? Do you think you can talk to Miss Carter for a little bit if you get to stay here?”

There was a hiccup—and then a cool metal hand latched onto him. “N-no—n-no l-leavin’? W-will stay?” There was a quiet, frightened desperation in those words—as if Roy would vanish and leave him alone with this stranger, as if he’d let him be asked and poked and prodded about his pain without anyone there to hold him through the fear.

Something in him softened, overwhelming and warm, like the petals of some golden flower unfurling to reach and wrap around the boy like a blanket. “Of course I’ll stay, sweetheart.”

“It won’t be very long, I promise,” Carter added, smiling. He had to admit, she seemed far less threatening when she smiled, sharp hazel eyes softening and perfectly pinned black hair slipping a bit from its tight bun. She set a notepad on her lap, tugging a pen from behind her ears. “And you don’t have to answer any questions that you don’t want to, okay? And if you need me to clarify something, just ask.”

Ed trembled fiercely enough that Roy could hear it, the fever radiating off of him making that frail flesh hand slippery and unsteady, before he rasped, “’K-kay.” Something fierce and proud rose in his chest, burning bright, and he rubbed gentle circles over that scar and murmured about how brave he was being, how hard he was trying and how proud Roy was of him. How proud Riza would be, and Al, and everyone on the team. Ed didn’t respond aloud, but he trembled a little less, which Roy counted as about as much a victory he’d get out of this situation.

Carter clicked her pen and then began, a small recording device at her side—probably to catch details that she forgot to write down, but Roy eyed it warily all the same. She noticed his stare and assured him that it was her personal property and would not be offered to the state, before leaning down a bit to meet the pair of golden eyes peering up at her from beneath the bed and asking the first question.

To his surprise, she asked him nothing about his time in captivity—well, nothing beyond what scared him now. She started off by asking him how it felt to be back and how he was adjusting to Roy’s house, listening patiently as Ed stumbled through his answers. She didn’t get impatient when he lost his train of thought or got stuck on a word, instead waiting calmly for him to find it again. Her questions pertained to the present rather than the past, and it seemed to have a grounding effect on Ed.

Somewhere around the twenty-minute mark, Ed started scooting a little closer. At about thirty, he inched out from under the bed, face flushed with fever and a dustbunny-covered Ree clutched in his automail arm. Forty minutes in, he was snuggled against Roy, half-chewing on Ree’s plush horn as she asked about his future in the military, if he would continue as a State Alchemist at some point or if he’d put the pocketwatch away and lay the red coat down.

Which…was something Roy hadn’t thought about, really. He’d been forced to entertain the possibility that Ed wouldn’t recover (at least not enough to ever be _that_ version of himself again), had (mostly) come to terms with it—because really, Ed was Ed, no matter what. The core of goodness and strength and unconditional love was still there, even if the courage was buried beneath fear and a lot of his tastes had changed. Even so, the thought of going back to the office and knowing that no infuriating pipsqueak would ever kick down his door to yell at him for leads again…it made something crack within him, something sharp and painful.

He loved this version of Ed like his son, but that angry, fierce kid who loved to annoy him and could never turn in reports on time had wormed his way into Roy’s heart, too. And now he was gone, maybe never to exist again. _Dead,_ he thought, and grief settled in his chest. _He died in a cell deep underground...all because I couldn’t save him._

He missed Ed’s response, too lost in thought, but came back to himself quickly as Carter said, “That’s all, Edward.” She smiled. “You did very well.”

Ed stirred against him, peeking up at her hopefully. Roy wound an arm around him as the dragon’s horn slipped free of his mouth; his eyes were hazy and unfocused, the sickness clearly taking its toll (Roy made a mental note to call Knox or _something)_ , but he made an effort to meet her eyes. “I w-was g-good?”

_Oh, kid, you’re gonna be the death of me…_

“You were very good, Edward,” she affirmed. “I think I speak for all of Amestris when I say that we are rooting for your recovery.” She rose to her feet, her smile kind as she tucked her pen back behind her ear. “Now, all we have to do is take a picture and we’ll be on our way.”

_A picture. Of course._ Roy picked Ed up, balancing him on his hip with unsettling ease, automail and all—goddamnit, had he _lost weight?_ He would _kill_ Bradley for causing this setback, and call Knox as soon as possible—and offering her a nod. “Thank you, Miss Carter—”

“P-picture?”

Ed’s voice was _tiny._

Tiny…and absolutely _terrified._

A sinking feeling settled in Roy’s chest even as Carter said, “Just one, dear, and it will be very quick, I promise.” He knew Ed was scared of being seen like this, of the backlash that came with being _weak_ (even though he was the strongest person Roy knew, even in this state— _especially_ in this state, for being brave enough to keep trying even when he was out of his mind with fear), and that the disastrous meeting with Bradley had only heightened it. He also knew that Ed was well aware about how long pictures could last, how many stories they could tell, how much they could reveal—hell, a lot of his work for the military had involved investigating what popped up in newspapers across the country.

The whole _world_ would have an eternal record of how utterly _destroyed_ Ed was, and Roy couldn’t do anything to stop it. _And that might not even be the problem,_ he realized as Ed hid his face in his shoulder, trembling and whimpering. There were a dozen things about a camera that could set him off. The bright, sudden light, the loud noise of the shutters, unfamiliar people positioning him for the picture, the infinite number of little things that could go horribly, horribly wrong…

No _wonder_ he was scared, he thought dazedly as he followed Carter into the living room, where a camera was already set up by the tall, broad-shouldered photographer she’d brought with her. Al was watching him warily, fingers tapping at a slip of paper that no doubt had a transmutation circle on it, “just in case.” He relaxed minutely when he saw his big brother, though, red eyes softening.

Ed burrowed even closer as he was settled on the couch, his frightened whines growing in volume as he tried to worm himself under his coat. He instinctively smoothed the boy’s hair down, mind whirling as he pressed a kiss to his forehead. _God, he’s burning up…_ “It’s okay,” he soothed, even though it wasn’t. “It’ll be okay. I’ll be right here.”

There was no way for Roy to save him from this. All he could do was choose the lesser of two evils, and he _hated_ himself for it.

He drew away, blinking fiercely at the burning in his own eyes when Ed’s eyes filled with tears and he reached out for him with a whimper. “It’ll be quick,” he promised, self-loathing burning deep in his chest. “And then ice cream, okay, buddy?”

A thin, reedy whine pulled from Ed’s lips, his arms wrapping tightly around Ree, and that dread settled deeper in Roy’s bones. If Ed felt too scared or was too _weak_ to speak right now, then… _Definitely calling Knox. Should probably let Riza know, too._

“Three…”

Ed’s trembling picked up, golden eyes wide and round and frightened as the photographer counted down. His lower lip wobbled, but the tears in his eyes didn’t spill over. _I have a bad, bad feeling about this,_ Roy thought, but he tried for a reassuring smile.

“Two…”

He swayed unsteadily in his seat, face pale despite the feverish flush. Roy remembered with a sudden spike of worry just how clammy his hand had felt. _Definitely a bad feeling._ He glanced at Al as the younger brother looked between photographer and subject, his eyes burning overbright with concern.

“One!”

The shutter clicked, and Ed’s eyes rolled back, his small body slumping back against the leather couch.

For a moment, everyone was still. Silent, _horrified—_ as if they couldn’t believe what had just happened. _Roy_ couldn’t believe what had just happened. Since coming back, Ed hadn’t passed out—not like _that._ He’d fallen asleep after stressful situations, but he usually stayed conscious until the threat was gone. He’d never… _fainted._

But he had now.

He’d— _oh, God._

Surprise and dread spiked into mind-numbing _panic_ and Roy surged forward, gathering the boy into his arms with a gasp. _Check his vitals his pulse oh god oh god oh god—_ His skin was practically burning with fever, even as he shivered; Roy bit back some animalistic noise of pure _terror_ when Ed’s pulse skipped and stuttered under his fingers. _No, nonono—_

“Al, call an ambulance,” he gasped out, clutching the boy to his chest. Metal footsteps clattered as Al darted over to the phone, Carter and her photographer crowding in with apologies and whispered worries. Roy forced back the threat of tears and staggered to his feet, heading for the door. _Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die—_

One slipped down Roy’s cheek against his will, landing on the boy’s face. _Don’t you dare leave us, Edward Elric._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger No. 2 appears! Poor Ed did not have a good time this chapter. Unfortunately, it's not gonna get much better for a while. Sad times all around for this little family...
> 
> That being said, I hope you guys enjoyed it! Leave a comment or a kudos if you did (and don't be afraid of longer ones if you have stuff to say! I love long comments <3), and I'll see you next Tuesday!


	27. words in my head, knives in my heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She didn’t see him at first. All she saw was Roy, huddled in an uncomfortable-looking plastic chair by a hospital bed, his hand wrapped around another’s. Al was hovering behind Roy, hands trembling and shoulders hunched as he tried to decrease his size as much as possible. The lights were dimmed slightly, and she approached warily, hating every beep of the machinery attached to the bed, the wires and the needles and the monitors.
> 
> She hated them even more when she finally saw Ed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Human](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XX9E2xuc7nU) by Christina Perri
> 
> prepare for some top-tier mama riza in this chapter, folks~

Riza, surprisingly enough, had never hated hospitals.

She didn’t _like_ them, obviously; she couldn’t think of anyone who genuinely _liked_ hospitals, but she could appreciate the good they did and what the people who worked in them were trying to accomplish. Hospitals were honest places. They didn’t pretend to be anything other than what they were, and since so much of her time was spent lying and maneuvering to reach their far-off goals, the brutal truth they provided was refreshing, sometimes even preferable. There were no pretenses. People did their jobs and did them to the best of their ability. Hating that simply because she hated being laid up in bed with an injury or an illness was foolish, and a waste of her time.

No, Riza had never hated hospitals—not until she picked up the phone and found Al sobbing on the other end of it, saying that Ed had passed out and his fever was higher than ever and they had to call an ambulance and could she _please, please come_ because he was scared to death and didn’t know what to do. Not until she was sprinting down one of those pristine white hallways she’d once admired, one of her children’s lives on the line and the other panicking. Not until she realized what it was like to be the one waiting to see if your loved ones survived the night, without a flicker of control over the situation.

She _hated_ hospitals now, she decided, skidding to a sudden halt in front of the pediatric ward— _because he’s a kid, he’s only fifteen, he doesn’t deserve to suffer like this god why are you letting this happen to him._ “Please,” she gasped to one of the—nurses, EMTs, she didn’t know and she didn’t _care,_ she just had to get to Ed. “I’m looking for Edward Elric, his brother called me and told me he was sick—”

“Lieutenant Hawkeye?” She recoiled, panicked thoughts immediately jumping to all the reasons those strangers could know her name, but the nurse raised her hands quickly. “Colonel Mustang told us you’d be coming. Mr. Elric is…” The nurse hesitated, and Riza’s chest tightened painfully with terror. “He’ll live, but he’s not doing very well right now,” she said gently, kindly, as if trying to spare her. Riza couldn’t stand it.

“What,” she bit out, “exactly is going on with my s—my charge?” _He’s my son, he’s my_ son— _no can’t say that could put him in danger, oh, god,_ Ed. “How bad is it, and how much worse will it get?”

The nurse wasn’t foolish enough to try and take her arm, but she nodded down the hall and set off. Riza stalked along behind her, fingers itching for a trigger to pull as she said, “As you know, he fell ill before he was brought here. The original cold would _not_ have been life-threatening, but stress, fear, and malnourishment weakened his immune system to the point that it developed _into_ a life-threatening virus. From what the Colonel told us, this was a product of whatever happened to him while he was missing, including his inability to eat. It created a dangerous combination that, along with his panic, caused him to faint. Thankfully, he was brought here before anything worse could happen, but he’s rarely lucid when he wakes up.”

Riza, strung-out as she was, could have wept with gratitude when she didn’t ask questions as to why the Fullmetal Alchemist was with them or where he’d been for a year—and wished that this particular enemy of Ed’s was someone she could kill. “But he _is_ waking up?”

“Yes, though only for brief intervals. Like I said, he’s not particularly coherent when he does.” The nurse hesitated. “His brother said he could speak, though not well, but he seems to have been rendered nearly mute by the illness. Not to mention the scars…”

 _The scars._ Rage flashed through her at the reminder of the brands on his tongue, the scars that littered every inch of skin aside from his face—before the words _nearly mute_ set in and horror filled her. “Is it permanent?” she croaked. _All that progress—he was doing so well, he was working so_ hard, _it’s going to break him if he can’t speak anymore…_  He’d be so _upset._

“It’s too early to tell,” the woman said grimly, halting in front of the door to one of the hospital rooms. Riza’s chest tightened painfully, fear setting in. “I think it depends on how much strength he has left and if he beats the virus. Dr. Vincent can tell you more when he arrives.”

 _Why isn’t he here? Why isn’t everyone available helping him—_ She squashed the irrational thoughts, dipping her head curtly. “Thank you,” she rasped, wrapping her hand around the doorknob. “For taking care of him…and for keeping this discreet.” Sure, the military knew of his return and there was an interview being sent out to publications around the country as she spoke, but the thought of people crowding her terrified, sickly son made her want to shoot someone even more.

“Of course.” The nurse’s gaze was solemn as she dipped her head. “The Hero of the People helped my sister,” she admitted quietly. “Keeping him as calm and comfortable as possible is the least I can do in return.”

Fresh grief seized her heart, and she had to close her eyes. _You’ve helped so many people,_ she thought, wishing Ed could hear her. _So many. You’re a good person, Edward Elric—better than the rest of us. Stay alive,_ malo sveta. _We can’t lose you too._ “Thank you,” she repeated, and opened the door, stepping inside.

She didn’t see him at first. All she saw was Roy, huddled in an uncomfortable-looking plastic chair by a hospital bed, his hand wrapped around another’s. Al was hovering behind Roy, hands trembling and shoulders hunched as he tried to decrease his size as much as possible. The lights were dimmed slightly, and she approached warily, hating every beep of the machinery attached to the bed, the wires and the needles and the monitors.

She hated them even more when she finally saw Ed.

Ed had always been small, even before he was taken (though saying that around him back then was a good way to send him rocketing into a fit of rage), if only in body. After his rescue, he’d seemed even smaller without that blinding intellect and quick temper to serve as a shield, as tiny and fragile as a child a third of his age. But now…he looked so _young,_ lying there in that hospital bed, his eyes closed and his face flushed with fever, his frail, skinny arm laden with IVs pumping fluids and medicine and nutrients into him. The thin, loose hospital gown he wore dwarfed him, making him look even _tinier._

He looked like what he was—a child. A sick, frightened, possibly _dying_ child.

Without a word, she set her hand over Al’s, sinking slowly into the chair beside Roy. Both of them jolted, a motion that almost made her laugh— _like father, like son_ , she thought hysterically—before Al let out a sob and bowed his head, shoulders trembling. Roy gazed at her for a moment, the bags under his eyes made even darker, hollower by the dimmed lights, then slumped in his seat and leaned his head on her shoulder. She didn’t bother shaking him off, either for appearances or anything else. Her superior officer—her friend of over a decade—needed the comfort as much as the Elrics did.

Her gaze swept over Ed again—at least he was breathing fairly well, but maybe that was because of the oxygen mask—before she blinked, realizing the absence of a certain blue stuffed animal. “Ree?” she asked quietly, because Ed adored that dragon and certainly wouldn’t do well in a hospital without it.

Al shook his head, hand trembling under hers. “I t-tried to get her for him when the ambulance came,” he croaked after a moment. “T-they said that s-she had to be decontaminated—c-cause if she’s not washed, she’ll just bring the disease back and he’ll get sick all over again.” The fingers of his free hand opened and closed, his scarlet eyes dull and unseeing. “He wants her, though—he can’t speak anymore—” a short, shuddery breath, eyes flashing “—but he cries a lot and keeps reaching for something to hold, and I—I can’t give it to him.”

“He’s not doing well,” Roy said hoarsely, and her gaze flicked down to him. He looked achingly weary, tired and ancient to his very bones. She almost thought she could pick out a strand of gray in that dark, currently-unkempt hair. “He’s been getting worse since the meeting—I thought he was doing better, calming down a little, but…” His breath hitched, and a shaking hand came up to cover his eyes. “I should have _known.”_

Riza didn’t know what to say to that, because—it was _true._ They should have been able to tell how much worse he’d been getting, should have seen the ever-so-slight downward incline he was sent snowballing down. They should have helped him, at least tried to take him to a proper doctor earlier (Knox was helpful, but this wasn’t his expertise). Hell, maybe they should have given him up entirely, sent him home to the Rockbells before they got any more attached.

That didn’t bear thinking about, though. Edward Elric would stay with them now, and Riza wasn’t going to let him die—and besides, none of them had seen it. They were all equally at fault. “The doctors say he’ll live?” She hadn’t meant it as a question, but it came out like one anyway. She craved the reassurance even more than before, staring at that small, prone body in that too-big hospital gown.

Roy barked a bitter laugh. “Small miracles. He’ll pull through, but Riza…this is a major setback. He might be _mute_ after this.” The mirthless smile on his face dropped after a moment, replaced with devastation. “He was doing so much better, too—Riza, he started asking for _help_ instead of us having to ask _him.”_ She closed her eyes, grief searing through her as Al trembled. “He’s going to be so _scared—_ and if he can’t communicate, he’s going to be even _more_ afraid.”

“I know.” She leaned back slightly, resting her head against Al’s chestplate. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, let’s focus on keeping him stable.”

Roy nodded, eyelids slipping ever so slightly. She let them; the events of the day had no doubt left him exhausted. Al hesitated, before curling his fingers around hers and rasping, “You’re not gonna leave, though, right?”

“Hell no,” Roy said flatly before she could even respond, though it probably would have been just as vehement and sharp an assurance. “You two are stuck with us, military or not.”

“We’re not going anywhere, Al,” Riza soothed, gazing up at anxious red eyes. The longer she spent around him, the easier it got to tell what he was feeling in the armor even without speaking, and the worry and hope and fear radiating off him right now was palpable even without that particular skill. “Roy and I will be here for you both no matter what.”

A flicker of relief danced through Al’s eyes, before the boy whispered, “Promise?”

“I promise.”

She waited for Roy to add his own assurances, but he didn’t. She furrowed her brow, glancing at him…and followed his gaze to the hospital bed. To the wide, hazy golden eyes blinking at them, glazed with exhaustion and pain and fright. To the quivering hands at his sides, the way his lower lip began to wobble under the oxygen mask.

He was awake.

Ed was _awake,_ and staring at them through wide, dazed eyes already brimming with tears, wordless whimpers echoing strangely in the room. Riza rose to her feet cautiously as Al rushed to his big brother’s side, gently talking to him, his hands fluttering like he wanted to hold Ed’s but was too afraid to try. Ed’s gaze tracked her as she drew near, though, before dropping to the IV cords in his arm.

The effect was immediate. At the sight of the cords and the reminder of where he was, his face crumpled, the tears spilling over as he started to cry. Her heart twisted, and she hurried to his side as he tried to tug at the IV cords with his automail hand, fumbling weakly and letting out a thin, reedy whine of pain and fear. “No, baby,” she chastised gently, winding her fingers around those of his metal hand and drawing them away from the cords. “I know they hurt, but they’re there to help you.”

Ed stared up at her, before letting out a sob and shaking his head, tossing it from side to side in his distress. She blinked back the sudden sting of her own tears, kissing the back of his hand. “I know, _malo sveta,”_ she said gently, even though she didn’t—how could she ever claim to know how frightened he was? How much pain he was in? All her scars came from her own mistakes, her own choices—to join the military, to become a weapon, to let Roy burn her back and prevent flame alchemy from ever being used as a weapon again. Ed’s, aside from perhaps his arm and leg, came from people attacking a young, already traumatized kid and breaking him beyond repair.

It was different. It was undeniably different, and she could never hope to comprehend how much pain he was and would be in. But she’d do _anything_ to alleviate it, anything at all—sell her soul (what was left of it), sacrifice her heart, her hands, her eyes. Any of it, if it meant keeping him safe. Keeping _both_ of them safe.

Ed let out another whine, his tears spilling down his face, and she perched on the edge of the bed, wiping them away with the pad of her thumb. “It’s okay,” she soothed, even though it was the farthest thing from okay in the world. “Al’s here. I’m here. Roy’s here.”

Something cleared in his gaze at that—a sort of almost-calm, though not quite. He tried to sit up, whimpering, but she held out the heel of her palm, pressing it gently against his shoulder. “Just rest, _ílie mou._ Whatever happens, we’ll be here.”

He blinked up at her, before whimpering in distress, head turning in the direction of Roy’s chair—Roy, who was just out of his line of sight. He probably didn’t believe her, she realized, and her heart cracked. _He doesn’t believe he’s worth seeing, or he believes we don’t want to see him._ Neither thought made her happy. He knew she was here, and Al was here, but he was scared that they were leaving anyway.

“Roy,” she called, keeping her voice soft. “Can you come over here? Ed wants to see you.”

He lifted his head, furrowing his brow before dark eyes sparked with understanding and he rose to his feet. He moved with little of his usual grace, too tired and worried to bother as he stumbled to Al’s side and peered around the armor. A faint smile pulled at his lips as he laid eyes on the boy, relief flickering across his face.

Relief. At _this. How bad did he have to be before if_ this _is a relief?_ She squashed the horror as Roy waved to Ed. “I’m here, kiddo,” he promised. “Not goin’ anywhere.”

Ed whimpered and reached for him, trying to sit up again. Al wrapped his hands around his brother’s flesh one, shaking his head. “You have to rest, Brother,” he pleaded softly, and Ed let out a whine, shaking his head again. “ _Yes,_ Ed. The more you rest, the faster you get to go home.”

A raw, upset cry tore from Ed’s throat at the mention of the _home,_ and he began to sob, pulling insistently at Al’s hand. Riza’s heart twisted with fear as much as sympathy—was he scared of going home now?—but Al shook his head again, seeming to understand. Not for the first time, Riza thanked the incredible bond of the two brothers for lasting so long, for being so ironclad, for providing an understanding neither she nor Roy could ever hope to match. “I’m sorry, Brother,” he croaked. “We—we can’t go home yet. We’ve gotta stay here until the doctor says it’s okay.”

He sobbed harder, tugging at Al’s hand again until his little brother reluctantly let go, hands shaking and metal shoulders trembling as if he was forcing back the tears he couldn’t physically shed. Riza perched on the side of the bed, twining her fingers more firmly around his and cupping his face with her free hand. He flinched away, then pressed into the touch with a keening noise that broke her heart into twisting, tiny pieces.

_He wants to go home._

She swallowed a sob of her own, pressing her forehead to his. _So do I._ “Oh, _solnyshko,”_ she whispered, and kissed the top of his head. He sobbed again, trembling fiercely. “It won’t be long, I promise. We’ll be home before you know it.” Roy settled in on his other side, dark eyes solemn as he took his other hand in his own.

Ed shook his head again, but his sobs were dying down to soft whimpering cries, his lids already growing heavy with exhaustion. Riza gave his hand a gentle squeeze, before kissing the back of it. “Roy, did you bring the book you were reading to him?”

Roy blinked at her in confusion, before his eyes brightened. “No,” he said regretfully, and Ed’s eyes filled with fresh tears as he fidgeted and whined. “But I can tell you another story—a _better_ story. And this one’s gonna have a happy ending too, sweetheart, I promise.”

“W-what’s it about?” Al’s eyes were bright as he asked the question, inching closer. Riza tilted her head, raising her eyebrows at Roy. Ed stirred and whimpered, clinging more tightly to her; her hand ached a little bit as the automail tightened, but she bore the discomfort easily.

Roy grinned despite his clear exhaustion, some of the terrified, nervous energy humming around him dissolving as he settled onto the edge of the bed and cleared his throat. “Once upon a time, there were two golden princes who loved their mother very much…”

Riza’s eyes widened fractionally as he continued to weave the tale—a true story, she realized. The story of the boys huddled around them now, one’s golden eyes shining with curiosity as the story went on, the other’s red eyes flashing with sudden recognition. Al glanced at her as if he was about to ask, but she shook her head, tilting it towards Ed.

Ed, who was listening, spellbound as Roy told the story of the poor cursed princes, one forced to be a hollow shield, the other a living sword. Ed, who let out a soft squeak of delight when a dashing rogue mage and his merry men started traveling with them, who was too tired and sick to laugh, but whose eyes shone with delight when the rogue’s right-hand-woman, a brilliant archer, shot a warning arrow at him.

Ed, who had no idea the story was true. Who _believed_ in it. Who was finally, finally calm, listening with rapt attention and pure contentment.

Al followed her gaze, and his eyes glowed bright, a smile hiding behind that armor. He dipped his head in the slightest nod, before shuffling closer and listening to Roy weave the tale of the two brothers long into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ed's finally calming down a little! Yay! Except...well, his voice might be gone in full now. But you'll find that out for certain eventually ;) 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! Leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed it--and leave me some song suggestions as well! I'm starting to run out of things in the playlist ^_^; Thank you all for reading, and I'll see you next Tuesday!


	28. up to my neck in the noises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The doctor and the nurses that came in were always Very Worried about him, even when they pretended that everything was okay. Ed didn’t bother calling them out on it—couldn’t even if he’d wanted to. He couldn’t bring himself to _talk_ anymore, too scared and sick to put the words together in his mind. All that came out were _noises,_ cries and whimpers like a little kid’s, and he barely had it in him to _care_ beyond what trouble this would cause for Roy and Riza and Al.
> 
> He would probably be upset about it when he stopped feeling so icky, he knew. Already the struggle to speak was causing problems, the inability to get them to _understand_ terrifying, but everything _hurt_ and he was so _tired_ all the time and talking was the last thing he wanted to do right now. Besides, Al still understood him, and Riza and Roy were getting better at it, too, so it didn’t matter—not yet. Maybe. Even if he wanted to cry about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Voices (Stripped Live)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X8Ts4LGHVhk) by Against the Current
> 
> Poor Ed is having a supremely terrible time, but it's a little better with Riza there. Mama Hawk ftw!

Ed was almost glad he couldn’t read, because that meant he couldn’t read the interview that the woman ( _newpersonstrangerscaryscarynonono)_ had published in the newspaper. In _every_ newspaper, according to Riza’s explanation. He could make out the word _THE_ in big block letters on top of the paper she was thumbing through, and next to it the letters _E_ and _A—_ the East City newspaper, probably, though he wouldn’t know for sure unless someone _told him,_ and he didn’t really _want_ to be told. He just wanted to go home and sleep in his own bed and have Ree back.

The doctor and the nurses that came in were always Very Worried about him, even when they pretended that everything was okay. Ed didn’t bother calling them out on it—couldn’t even if he’d wanted to. He couldn’t bring himself to _talk_ anymore, too scared and sick to put the words together in his mind. All that came out were _noises,_ cries and whimpers like a little kid’s, and he barely had it in him to _care_ beyond what trouble this would cause for Roy and Riza and Al.

He would probably be upset about it when he stopped feeling so icky, he knew. Already the struggle to speak was causing problems, the inability to get them to _understand_ terrifying, but everything _hurt_ and he was so _tired_ all the time and talking was the last thing he wanted to do right now. Besides, Al still understood him, and Riza and Roy were getting better at it, too, so it didn’t matter—not yet. Maybe. Even if he wanted to cry about it.

The doctor said his fever was going down, which Ed knew was probably good, but that he was still ma—malno—malnour— _tiny_ and weak and not-fed-enough, so the needles in his arm had to stay, which meant he ended up biting his automail fingers when he had a bad dream or got scared or just needed the comfort. He’d cut his tongue on them once and Roy had panicked. Ed didn’t understand why. It didn’t hurt as much as the tongue brand, or the Bar.

Except…maybe he did understand a little bit. Because even if he was Bad and weak and stupid and frightened all the time, people got _upset_ when he got hurt. Like he wasn’t _supposed_ to be hurt, and…he wasn’t, was he? Not—not like _that._ Maybe he deserved it (even if Riza said he didn’t, if Roy hugged him every time he suggested it, if Al got that angry-sad look in his eyes), but he wasn’t just…meant to hurt like that. Or be hurt all the time.

At least he didn’t need the breathing mask-thing anymore. He could barely remember having it, but he knew he’d tried to bite at his hand again and hadn’t been able to because it was there. It made his mouth and nose feel painfully dry, too, and he was glad it was gone. And he was allowed to sit up now, too, which felt nice. It was easier to see the others, to make sure that they came back and they weren’t hurt or upset or _leaving._

Riza was here now, reading through the day’s newspaper—or was it from three days ago? Had he been here for three days? He watched her as her brow furrowed, the faintest frown appearing on her face, and felt his own face scrunch up in response as he reached out to her with a whimper. _Is she upset? Did I do something? What’s making her sad—can I fix it?_

He almost laughed at that last thought. He couldn’t even fix himself, was too scared to clap his hands together and too broken to _talk,_ let alone walk on his own or go outside without needing a stuffed animal and someone to hold him. He broke everything he touched, and in lieu of that, the things he was too proud to protect against broke him. Tears pricked his eyes, and he suddenly wanted the needles out his arm—

_Put_ things _in him, awful things, things that hurt and things that made him docile and things that made his body feel like he was drowning in a puddle of mud while they rummaged around in his head, taking stuff out and putting stuff in and he felt sick and small and scared, he wanted out he wanted to go home he wanted their hands off him and he wanted Al and the Colonel and the Lieutenant and the sky he wanted his mom he wanted—_

_He didn’t deserve to want._

A hand cupped his face, shocking him out of the memory— _dark cold cramped broken glass barbed wire Bar burns scary needles and monsters and voices and it hurt it hurt it hurt—_ and he jerked back, before instinctively pressing into Riza’s hand with a whimper. Her amber eyes gazed down at him, filled with warmth and worry ( _not green, not green and soft and gentle but just as good just as warm just as—as motherly)_ and he felt his lower lip wobble.

He’d wanted to figure out what was making her sad—he’d wanted to _help—_ and instead he’d gotten stuck in the cell again and started crying. _I’m sorry,_ he wanted to say, but all that came out was a thin, reedy whine. Tears slipped down his cheeks and he hiccupped pathetically. _I’m sorry, Mom._

Mom. He blinked at the thought, the name, more tears spilling down his cheeks as she asked what was wrong, if something hurt ( _his heart hurt, his chest, his bones, his scars, but Riza could make it go away, she always made it go away)_. Mom was Trisha Elric, Mom would _always_ be Trisha Elric, but his broken thoughts, his fragile heart were latching onto her and Roy and he was terrified, _terrified_ of what that meant.

His mother had _died,_ and his father had _left._ What if he revealed what his stupid brain kept calling them and they left, too? What if they decided they didn’t want him anymore? What if Mom got angry in the afterlife and didn’t want him anymore either? She already probably hated him for—for trapping Alphonse, for being unable to read her gravestone, for being bad and weak and scared, but this was an even bigger betrayal. He couldn’t fix this. He couldn’t even fix Al.

He was useless and weak and no one would want him. Roy and Riza wouldn’t want him. Even if he so desperately ached for them to.

“Ed, I need you to breathe with me, _solnyshko.”_ He heard Riza’s voice as if from a great distance, blinked as the world blurred white and gray and pale, pale blue, losing the familiar amber in the tears that kept falling, falling, falling. Absently, he felt his breathing hitch and realized that he was hyperventilating. A hand positioned his flesh one over a heartbeat, another still cupping his cheek. “Can you try?”

A sob escaped as he felt her inhale, the pain in his chest becoming more and more clear as he tried and failed to suck air into his lungs. _Won’t want me anymore won’t like me anymore sorrysorrysorry._ Her pulse kept thudding, thudding, thudding under his hand, her breathing slow and steady to match it, and he wanted to just curl up in her arms and cry forever and ever and ever.

“Breathe in,” she counseled, and Ed _tried,_ he really did, but it _hurt_ and he ended up crying again. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” The thumb of the hand cupping his face swept across his cheekbones, wiping away the tears. He blinked as his vision cleared—not much, but enough to make out shining amber. “You’re doing great, _malo sveta,_ I’ve got you. Now breathe out…”

Ed _tried,_ finally managing a long, shuddery exhale. His lower lip wobbled as Riza gave him a gentle smile. “There we go, _solnyshko._ Can you breathe in for me now?” She squeezed his hand where it rested over her heart. Ed sucked in a shaky, unsteady breath, choking on it as he whimpered up at her, and that smile widened, soft and warm. “Good job, Ed. Do you want me to let go?”

His eyes filled with tears at the very idea— _scaryscaryscary stay pleasepleaseplease m’sorrysorrysorry don’t go—_ and he shook his head frantically, whining fearfully and reaching for her with his automail hand. He was too tired to operate the fingers well, pawing weakly at her sleeve and fighting back the urge to break down into a sobbing mess when she moved to the edge of the bed. Strong arms wrapped around him, coiled steel under soft skin, and he scooted closer, a thin cry of pain escaping when the movement pulled at the IV cords.

This wasn’t _fair._

It was a childish thought, and he felt even dumber for thinking it, but it _wasn’t._ He couldn’t even _do_ anything and all he wanted was a stupid _hug_ and the IV wouldn’t even let him have _that._ Frustrated tears spilled over and he inched back with a sob, rubbing uselessly at his eyes. Nothing was fair, he knew that, knew that equivalent exchange resulted in pain every single time and that everything good he tried to do turned into a mess and the bad stuff would _always_ outweigh the good. He knew that if things were fair, Al would have his body and Ed would be dead and the Fuhrer would be gone and Roy and Riza could be together. If it was fair, maybe Mom— _not Riza not Riza I’m so sorry—_ would still be alive and none of this would have happened.

But life _wasn’t_ fair, and he was still alive and Al was stuck in that metal _husk_ because of how _selfish_ Ed was and Roy and Riza had to pretend all the time and the Fuhrer was still hurting people and Hohenheim was gone and Mom was dead. He _knew_ it wasn’t fair. He knew he deserved this, the hurt, the sickness, the fear, but it—it didn’t stop him from wanting to burst into tears at the injustice of it all. All he wanted was a hug and now he couldn’t have it because he was stupid and weak and got scared by a _camera._

It wasn’t _fair!_

It _wasn’t._

_I want my mom._ His eyes steadily filled with tears, and he started to cry in earnest, rubbing at his eyes. _I want my mom I want my mom I want my_ —

He felt himself being nudged over and wailed, curling up into a ball. _No, nonono—_ “Shhh,” came the gentle murmur, and he felt someone settle onto the bed beside him, an arm slinging around his shoulders. “I’ve got you, baby. I’m right here.” Those arms wrapped around him again, firm and unyielding and blocking out the terrifying world outside, and he buried his face in her shoulder with a sob. His hands tried to find her shirt and twine themselves into the fabric, latching onto her as he cried and cried. “I’m here.”

A full-body shudder rocked him, and he sobbed again, clinging to her desperately. _Don’t go don’t go._ Her arms shifted, and he gasped as his head was pressed over her heart, a soothing, steady _thud-thud-thud_ filling his ears. It started to drown out everything else—the harsh chemical scent, the utter lack of color, the panic chasing itself through his veins, the memories and the _fear_ —until all he could hear was that steady, grounding pulse echoing.

It felt…almost like a hug in itself. It blocked out everything scary until he could focus on something other than the needles in his arm and how his voice wasn’t working and the constant, painful beeping of the machines. He could _hear Riza,_ hear that she was alive and with him and protecting him.

He could—

He could hear his _mom._ Or—or as good as, anyway. It was— _bad,_ and selfish of him to think like that, to want a mom after everything he’d done to try and get his mom back, after all the pain he’d caused. He didn’t deserve a family or love or any of the support he was getting, but—but he wanted it so badly it _hurt._

Before-Ed hadn’t. Before-Ed was—not good, but better than Now-Ed. Before-Ed hadn’t needed anybody but Al and even then, he could survive on his own, but if any of them left for good _now—_ if any of them left, he knew he’d shatter. _Weak,_ he thought, and buried his face in Riza’s shoulder with a sob. _Weak and broken and worthlessworthlessworthless—_

He shouldn’t want a mom. Or a dad. The former died ( _twice_ , because he’d ruined everything, because he was selfish, because he as good as killed her _again)_ , the latter left ( _why’d he go what did he do he hated him he hated him he—why wasn’t he good enough for him_ ), and he broke everything he touched. He hurt people. That was what he _did._

But…but he didn’t want to be alone anymore. He didn’t want to hurt anymore, even though he deserved it. He didn’t want to let go and he wanted them to stay so much that the thought of them turning their backs on him made him feel nauseous.

_Stay,_ he wanted to sob as he hid his face in her shoulder. _Please stay, Riza._ He knew by now that she probably wouldn’t leave, but he couldn’t be sure. He could _never_ be sure.

_After all, who would want to stay for a broken mess of a failed alchemist like you?_

He huddled closer against her side, that steady, solemn heartbeat drowning out Their voices—or was it even Their voices anymore? Maybe it was Before-Ed laughing at him, reminding him that he didn’t deserve any of this. It—it made _sense,_ because Before-Ed had died when he was born and he probably _hated_ him now.

Another shuddering sob escaped, and he felt Riza curl protectively around him. _Wanna go home now, Mom._

“Brother!”

He jolted at the voice as Riza shushed him, whimpering and trying to make himself as tiny as possible— _face hidden vitals protected safesafesafe._ Al sounded—Al sounded either _scared_ or _angry,_ and he couldn’t pinpoint which, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to fold himself up to be harmless, safe, not-a-target. _Al will never hurt you,_ a tiny voice in the back of his head reminded him, and he _knew_ that, but—but he—

Another sob slipped out and he buried his face in the warmth of Riza’s sweater. _You really are being a baby about all this._

“What is it, Al?” Riza’s voice was calm, steady, but Ed could hear a tiny hint of reproach in it and shuddered. _No—s’not Al’s fault—bein’ stupid bein’ bad m’sorrysorrysorry all my fault._

There was a sort of shuffling sound that Ed hadn’t been able to make out before, too panicked and upset to hear his brother until he burst in, but he didn’t dare lift his head to look at him. “T-there’s a visitor,” he blurted. “She’s not taking no for an answer and she’s really, _really_ mad and I think she might try and punch Roy through the roof in a second and she’s scared all the hospital staff off. She, uh, she doesn’t like the military much and she read the article and she’s probably going to kill me but she doesn’t know how bad it is yet and I don’t want her to scare Ed—”

_New person._ He whimpered again at the thought—at the thought of this loud, angry person who was going to _punch Roy,_ who scared off the doctors and nurses and made Al so nervous. A tremor ran through him, and he wished he could curl up and disappear and go _home. Don’t wanna see them nonono._

“Al, _slow down.”_ There was an edge of _command_ in Riza’s voice that brought back flickering memories of the sharp-eyed lieutenant, overlaying them with the gentle, unfailingly kind person who’d been taking care of him. He pressed as much of himself against her as he could, an arm rubbing comforting circles on his back. “I promise you, we’re not letting anyone in here who’s going to scare him.”

“I know, I just—” There was a shaky exhale. “I don’t know if we can stop her until she sees him.”

_She._

The gears started turning in Ed’s mind, even as he huddled against Riza’s warmth. A _she,_ who didn’t trust the military and was strong enough and scary enough to punch Roy and scare off all the doctors. Who knew him, and Al, and was worried but had a temper scary enough to frighten his invulnerable little brother.

His eyes widened fractionally as the realization hit, then filled with tears, terror and shame swirling in his chest. _No—nonono—_

“Alphonse.” Riza’s voice was calming, comforting, but Ed couldn’t stop himself from sobbing into her side. _Don’t let her see me please don’t let her please!_ “Who’s coming?”

Ed, despite his panic, despite the overwhelming _fear_ shocking through his senses as he wailed into her shoulder, knew the answer before Al said it. “Izumi Curtis.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IZUMI'S HERE! And threatening to punch Roy through the roof, because like hell does she trust the military with her precious pupil. Unfortunately, she has no idea just how bad things really are...but she'll find out. Ohhhhh, she'll find out.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter (and the bit of mama hawk foreshadowing--momshadowing? hawkshadowing?)! Leave a comment or a kudos if you did, and I'll see you next Tuesday--and please leave song suggestions if you can! There's only so many angsty songs I know that I haven't already used. Thank you all so much for reading!


	29. if you fall i will catch you, i'll be waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy was used to being surrounded by terrifying women. Well-prepared for them, even. He had a whole system—be charming but not smarmy (unless dealing with Olivier Armstrong, because she’d simply stab you regardless), try to sound as though you were deferring to them even when you weren’t, and try not to be an asshole regardless of how much of an asshole the other person is being. In all fairness, it was a system his sisters used to get information out of clients, one that a _lot_ of women probably used when dealing with men, but it _worked._ Usually. Mostly.
> 
> Izumi Curtis, however, was a whole other story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was SUPPOSED to be more Izumi-focused, but Roy stole the damn thing and started running with it. So...here you are, I suppose.
> 
> [Time After Time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OYgfAq6ttYc) cover by Megan Davies

Roy was used to being surrounded by terrifying women. Well-prepared for them, even. He had a whole system—be charming but not smarmy (unless dealing with Olivier Armstrong, because she’d simply stab you regardless), try to sound as though you were deferring to them even when you weren’t, and try not to be an asshole regardless of how much of an asshole the other person is being. In all fairness, it was a system his sisters used to get information out of clients, one that a _lot_ of women probably used when dealing with men, but it _worked._ Usually. Mostly.

Izumi Curtis, however, was a whole other story.

Granted, he didn’t have the energy to deal with any of this after the total lack of sleep and constant, pressing anxiety that struck whenever he tried, every thought fretting over everything that could happen to Ed in his absence. Even if he’d been at his most charming, though, he was pretty sure she’d despise him. She clearly loathed the military—unsurprising, many people did—and she was… _convinced_ wasn’t the right word, but definitely wary that Roy was deliberately keeping her students from her for some nefarious purpose.

Or, more accurately, keeping _Ed_ from her _._ Because she’d already seen Al and that exchange had been fraught with pure terror on the younger Elric’s part and some strange mix of fondness and rage (and that strangely parental _fear_ he so often felt) on hers. But she’d practically _thrown_ the article at the doctors, demanding to see her student, and when Roy had stepped in to try and explain what was going on, she’d seemed… _disinclined_ to believe him.

Which was fair. He’d spent the last two months keeping Ed as much a secret as possible, and he of all people was _certainly_ aware of the military’s sinister nature. He didn’t exactly have a reputation as an honest man, either; one couldn’t be a charming borderline-spy and be renowned for truthfulness. But he was slowly losing his grip on his sanity (mostly from exhaustion, though the threat of being punched straight through to the roof was certainly sending his anxiety skyrocketing) and he knew that Ed wasn’t ready to see her. That _she_ wasn’t ready to see _Ed_.

But _no one_ was ready to see Ed, really. No one ever would be, especially those who knew him before the attack. But this—the threat of rejection from a woman he’d spoken about with fear and respect and near-hero worship before the incident, from someone he’d clearly trusted implicitly and once adored—might just break him.

He was just about to let her punch him through the roof and be stopped in her tracks by a furious Riza (who, surprisingly, was far more protective than he was when it came to new people—which was saying a lot, since he would quite literally hide Ed away from the world forever if he had half a chance) when Al poked his head out from around the corner, looking nervous. “Uh, Teacher?”

The woman whirled to him, her black eyes somehow _physically_ _blazing_. Roy knew fire intimately, its dangers and joys and most brilliant moments, but Izumi Curtis had it in nearly every movement he’d seen so far and it was absolutely _terrifying_. Her expression seemed to lighten with something like _hope_ when she saw the younger Elric, though. “Al—”

The armor wrung his hands, soulfire eyes overbright with worry. “Ed…Ed says you can see him.” _Except Ed can’t speak,_ Roy knew, which meant he’d likely indicated it after much coaxing and worrying with some mixture of small noises and gestures. Did Mrs. Curtis even know about the muteness? _No—_ probably not, anyway. It wasn’t in the article ( _god, that damn article)_ , and that was probably the amount of knowledge that she—that most people, honestly—had on the situation. “But Roy and Riza and I are staying,” he added, his voice hardening. “He—he can’t be alone, and definitely not with anyone he’s scared o—uh, not when he’s so scared right now.”

Her eyebrows flicked up—Roy hoped it was at the first-name-basis and not the idea of them staying for this confrontation-slash-conversation (or the fact that Al had as good as admitted that Ed was afraid of her)—but a sense of palpable relief radiated off of her. “That’s fine. As long as I can see him.”

Al nodded, some minute flicker of tension easing, and he glanced pleadingly at Roy. Despite his sudden firmness, there was worry and desperation in his eyes, a plea for backup and support that Roy would never dream of ignoring. He strode past Mrs. Curtis, offering him a weary smile as she fell in step a few feet behind them. “How is he?” he asked softly.

The armor winced visibly, fiddling with his gauntlets. “He…he’s scared,” he admitted softly. “He thinks Teacher’s gonna hate him, and he—he hasn’t let go of Riza since he heard that she was here, and he keeps crying on and off. He wants to be brave so she won’t be mad at him, but…”

The fact that Al didn’t mention any attempts to assure him that she wouldn’t worried Roy; he knew that someone who so clearly cared deeply about his—ward? former subordinate? _son?—_ would never dream of hurting him, could _never_ hate him. But Mrs. Curtis seemed rather… _intense_ and if Ed interpreted anger toward them or his captors as anger toward _him,_ he’d absolutely _panic._ Hopefully he and Riza could provide enough of a buffer.

Then again, he was probably underestimating Mrs. Curtis; it was possible (and likely, honestly) that a lot of her fury right now came from fear. Everything would probably be fine. Definitely. Maybe. Possibly.

God, he hoped so.

“It’ll be okay,” he murmured soothingly, and laid a hand gently on his forearm. Despite Al’s inability to _feel_ (physically, at least; the boy felt emotion more deeply than almost anyone he’d ever met, as though he were pouring all of himself into every action to make up for everything he could no longer do), he’d quietly admitted contact that he could _see_ helped remind him that he and his brother weren’t alone. That they had _people_ now, people who were _always_ within reach, via phone call or quiet late-night chat, people they didn’t have to hide from _._ “I promise you, Al.”

Al inhaled, then exhaled long and slow—or made the sound of a breath anyway. It was another gesture that seemed to help calm him when he couldn’t escape himself or his mind. He dipped his head gratefully. “Thank you,” he mumbled shyly, before halting in front of the ward and turning to face Mrs. Curtis. Roy wasn’t foolish enough to think that she hadn’t overheard, even without the thoughtful expression on her face. “Teacher, I’m—I’m really sorry to ask, but just…he’s not as strong as before, so—”

“I won’t hurt him, Alphonse.” Her voice was steady, but she had a white-knuckled grip on the Dublith newspaper with Carter’s interview. He could see some of the colors of the picture that had caused so much trouble peeking out from between her fingers. Objectively, it was a magnificent picture, capturing the fear and innocence and flickers of hope, his eyes shining a little more than usual. But Roy knew the truth—that his eyes were shining because he was about to cry, that the “adorable” blush across his cheeks was a debilitating fever, that the picture had (by no fault of the photographer, he reminded himself) sent his kid to the hospital. “And I won’t raise my voice. I just…” For the first time, she faltered. “I thought my student was dead for a year,” she continued quietly. “I just want to know for sure that he’s safe.”

Something in Al seemed to soften at that, and something similar warmed in Roy’s chest, that shield he put up for all things Edward Elric lowering itself ever-so-slightly. While he knew rationally that Mrs. Curtis would never hurt Ed, the confirmation helped that overwhelmingly overprotective side of him to calm down. “I understand,” he said quietly, and he _did._ Every time he left the house, he found himself with that fearful itch— _what’s happening? Is he alive? Is he safe?_ It had become easier to deal with, but then Ed had gotten sick again and all of Roy’s efforts to regain the tiniest bit of composure had gone right out the window. “’But thank you for the confirmation.”

Her eyes narrowed, but rather than rage, Roy saw…intrigue. Suspicion and distrust and dis _like,_ but the absolute loathing from before had either faded or was too well-hidden for him to spot. “You care about him.”

It wasn’t a question, but Roy answered anyway. “Very much so.” _So much that it hurts._

She nodded curtly in response, her expression unchanging. Something of an understanding flickered between them now, but Roy didn’t dwell on it as Al glanced between them before timidly knocking on the door. “Riza? Brother? I have Teacher with me,” he called softly. “Can we come in?”

There was a beat of near-silence—Roy winced when a muffled sob reached through the hospital walls—before Riza’s voice came through. It was weary, _exhausted,_ but still ferociously protective as she said, “As long as you’re quiet.”

Al nodded despite the fact that the two within the room couldn’t see him, twisting the knob and nudging the door opened. Roy followed him in eagerly, though his relief at seeing Ed safe quickly withered back into that overwhelming, petrifying protectiveness when he drew closer. Riza’s amber eyes were slits of wariness as Mrs. Curtis approached, her arms wrapped tightly around Ed—Ed, who was crying quietly into her shirt, clinging to her like a lifeline. Ed, who hid his face in her sweater as soon as he heard footsteps, whimpering wordlessly.

Ed, who was already bracing himself for the rejection. For pain. For _hate._

Al was murmuring something to Mrs. Curtis—explaining, pleading, Roy didn’t know and didn’t _care,_ either. The kid curled up on the hospital bed needed something, some _one—_ more than one someone, since whatever calm Riza had brought him was quickly dissolving into pure panic. He perched on the side of the bed, meeting worried amber eyes. He arched an eyebrow. _How’s he doing?_

She shook her head minutely, and his heart sank even further. _Not good._ A calloused hand gently smoothed over tangled golden hair (the poor kid would _definitely_ need a bath in order to loosen the knots up enough to brush them out) with breathtaking tenderness—the hands of a murderer like him, another person with the blood of children on her hands, holding a child as though she could shield him from all the horrors they’d faced.

Once again, Roy was struck by just how unworthy they both were, just how much Ed deserved and could never have, just how much they’d failed him. He’d sworn to stick with the kid and support him to the end long, _long_ before the capture, even if he hadn’t believed him back then. It was a promise he intended to keep no matter the cost (and he didn’t think he’d be able to let him go even if he _wanted_ to at this point, the kid so thoroughly imprinted on him that abandoning him felt like a death sentence). But now that he was facing another viable option, someone who’d known Ed longer and had the wisdom and strength and, you know, _lack of a genocidal past and dangerous military ties_ to be a proper caretaker and parent…

Well, he wondered if Ed would be better off. If _Al_ would be better off, the brothers out of the military’s reach and somewhere far from the city that had kept the eldest prisoner. They’d be further from Risembool, true, but safer than here, and maybe—maybe it would be better for them. _Oh, god,_ what if Ed didn’t want them anymore after this visit was over, what if he was scared of him and Riza now— _what if he_ hates _us—_

_“Why didn’t you save me?”_

_He was paralyzed, staring into golden eyes as tears spilled down hollow cheeks. Flames were licking at the trembling child’s clothes, the same blue shirt Roy had gotten for him, Ree dangling from his automail hand. He tried to move, but he couldn’t and Ed flinched when he opened his mouth. A whimper left the kid’s throat before he whispered, “It hurts.”_

_And then the flames were rising higher and Roy could move but not of his own free will, and he was snapping and screaming and sobbing as Ed turned to dust and ash and drops of melted steel, as his son died by his hand, dust and shadows and nothing more—_

Those thoughts came to a screeching halt as Ed lifted his head with a pitiful whimper, golden eyes glazed with exhaustion as he dragged them across the room. Mrs. Curtis, who was looking greener by the second as Al quietly briefed her on what they knew, froze when his gaze dragged across her, fixing momentarily on Al before shifting to Roy. His eyes light up faintly, hope sweeping across his feverish face as he reached toward him with a quiet whine, a clear plea to be carried. To be comforted.

And really, Roy was wrapped so tightly around his little finger at this point that he couldn’t say no even if he wanted to. “Hi, sweetheart,” he murmured, scooping him up and settling him on his lap. He couldn’t carry him like he usually would, not with the IV cords still in his arm and the dozens of other monitoring attachments stuck on his small body, but Ed curled up and tucked his face into the crook of Roy’s neck without complaint. “You miss me?”

Ed let out another whine, nestling even closer—a yes, then, or as close as he was willing to give at the moment. Roy’s heart melted despite himself and he chuckled softly. “Missed you too, buddy. But there’s someone else here who’s missed you a lot, you know. Think you’re up to saying hi?”

He wasn’t, if the way he immediately buried his face in his side was anything to go by. Roy would gladly let him opt out, would have asked Mrs. Curtis to please come back when he _wasn’t_ in the hospital (because honestly, this was the _worst possible time_ she could have picked to find out about him). But Ed wouldn’t, even though he was shaking like he was trapped in a hurricane and clinging to him like his life depended on it. Of all the things that remained of the old Fullmetal Alchemist, one of the best and worst was his stubbornness—that stupid, wonderful, absolutely _infuriating_ stubbornness.

Sometimes it was almost adorable, or even _touching_ , like when Ed absolutely refused to let him wallow and purposely distracted him because he so firmly believed that Roy was good. Other times, it made him worry endlessly even as it made him proud, like when he’d so bravely decided to try and go on that walk almost a month ago despite the dizzying terror that gripped him.

 Right now, he was firmly in the worried-but-proud camp as Ed shuddered, before nodding against his shoulder with a whimper. “That’s pretty damn brave of you, buddy,” he praised softly, giving him a gentle squeeze. “We can cut the visit short whenever you need to, okay?”

Another nod, more frantic this time. He rubbed gentle circles on his back as he raised his eyes to Izumi Curtis’s. She approached warily, subdued in a way that he guessed was uncharacteristic of her, her hands shaking slightly—with fear, with rage, with hope or anticipation, he didn’t know. Maybe all of them, if she felt anything like he had when he’d found him crying in that phone booth. She crouched ever-so-slightly, just enough so that Ed wouldn’t have to crane his neck to look up at her.

“Ed?” she asked, and her voice was the softest he’d heard it. Ed still flinched against him, and Roy instinctively held him tighter, some feral part of him snarling to rescue his child from the potential threat. “Can you look at me, please?”

For a moment, Roy thought that he wouldn’t, that he’d curl up even tighter or burst into tears all over again—but the kid shifted in his arms and opened one golden eye warily, peering up at his teacher. He was trembling uncontrollably, hope and fright rolling off of him in waves, but he didn’t look away.

Mrs. Curtis blinked, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears. “You…you’re really alive.” Her gaze ran over the automail, and Roy caught himself wondering how much she knew, how much she was figuring out just by looking at them, but there was no way she’d bring up the human transmutation (if she knew about it, he reminded himself, though he suspected that if she didn’t before, she was figuring it out now). She reached out a hand as if she was going to touch him, then drew back, her dark eyes worried. “Crap, kiddo, I’m so sorry—”

And Ed—

Ed gazed at her for a moment, before timidly reaching out with his flesh hand, winding tiny, brittle fingers around hers and offering a hesitant, wobbly smile. Mrs. Curtis sucked in a breath, tears slipping down her cheeks. and Roy—well, Roy could’ve thrown a damn _party_ for his kid in that moment, wanted to bring out a cake and streamers and get him a dozen stuffed animals because _that_ , that was the most trust he’d ever offered someone beside the three of them and Winry. He wanted to shout from the rooftops about how brave he’d been, how proud of this precious, broken, beautiful boy he was.

Was _this_ how Hughes felt? Like every moment, every breath was something miraculous, to be remembered and celebrated by the whole goddamn _world?_ Like the universe itself needed to see how wonderful this child was, like he could spend days, months, years extolling the virtues of this small, magical creature that fate had somehow gifted him? Was _that_ the reason for the pictures—so the world would remember all of those beautiful moments that only he could see the wonder in?

…Maybe he should invest in a portable camera at some point—but for now, Roy was perfectly content to keep the magic of this moment between the shyly-smiling child in his arms and the people who loved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed that! If it feels a bit rushed, I'm sorry; it's been hard to find time to write between work and college application stuff. I hope you liked Izumi, though!
> 
> Also, we've cracked TEN. THOUSAND. HITS. WHAT??? I cannot thank you guys enough; this is hands-down my most read story, and my favorite to write as well. I love y'all so much <3
> 
> Leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed it, and as always, I'll see you next Tuesday!


	30. rest your head close to my heart, never to part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looked tired—tired, but not terrified, not overwhelmed by nightmares and the following shame. _A good day._ Maybe they’d get one after all.
> 
> The drowsy confusion on his face cleared to relief and that absolutely terrifying adoration, and he smiled shyly, pulling tentatively on her sleeve. She let him guide her into his room, noting the clumsily-made bed fondly as he tugged her over to the window. Puzzled, she eyed the rain sheeting down like a waterfall pouring upon the city. “Did you see something, _malo sveta?”_
> 
> Ed opened his mouth, then made a wordless noise of frustration, tears welling up as he visibly fought to find words and came up with nothing. Riza’s heart twisted and she reached to comfort him—before he pointed at the window again, frail fingers fumbling hesitantly for the latch. She caught at his hand gently and he let out a whine, shaking his head as the words refused to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy do I have a treat for you guys today~ maybe the song choice will illuminate things
> 
> [Baby of Mine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h-oOXlycy5M) by Alison Krauss

Izumi and Sig Curtis had returned home after three days, and though Ed had protested (as best he could with speaking still being such an issue) their leaving, he’d seemed to relax at the lack of variables left to affect him. Riza had stayed as Roy was forced to return to work, reading quietly to him and holding him when the noise and the sickness and the fear got to be too much. Al ran errands between hospital visits, trusted by Roy with another key to the apartment— _you’re as good as one of mine,_ her superior had half-joked, holding out the key to him, _besides, it’s not fair of me to keep you cooped up—_ fetching groceries and returning whatever books he’d checked out to the library. Riza had spent the remainder of the week by Ed’s side, resigning herself to taking more time off work while Roy got back into the swing of things.

The Friday after Riza had found out about Ed being hospitalized, she found herself holding a trembling Ed’s automail hand as the nurses removed the IVs and the cords attached to him. Bandages and gauze were gently taped over the small, sore puncture marks as he watched, lower lip wobbling. Dr. Vincent had signed off on his new prescriptions—for the residual fever, for the loss of appetite, for… _everything—_ and she’d continue holding his hand as she signed him out of the hospital.

Ed had huddled in the backseat of her car, his small hands quivering as he pulled his knees to his chest. She’d murmured to him, hummed quietly, and sometimes he would manage a tiny, tiny smile, but his eyes would cloud with exhaustion and fear and the flicker of hope she glimpsed in him would dissolve again. Al had been waiting for them at the apartment, somehow beaming despite his inability to express himself as others did and holding Ree out to Ed.

Ed had looked between the stuffed dragon and his little brother—and burst into tears.

They’d both promptly panicked (Riza wasn’t exactly proud of it, but she _had_ ), stumbling over themselves to apologize, to fix the problem. Ed had just sunk to the ground, rubbing at his eyes as he wept, and it wasn’t until he looked up at them again that Riza realized these were _happy_ tears. That he was crying because he was relieved, because he was home, because he felt _safe_ again.

And for the first time in a long, long while, she’d felt _hope._ Ed wasn’t the same, would probably never be the same, but he was _happy_ for once—and even if he was still sick, still exhausted and afraid and desperate for comfort, he was _improving._ He was fighting this battle—this honest-to-god _war_ with himself, and though he hadn’t quite conquered it, he was scoring tiny victories, chipping away at his fear, his pain, his hurt. Perfect little victories in the form of tremulous smiles and silent requests for help, for stories and a hand to hold and unconditional love.

It was an uphill battle, but maybe it was one they could win.

And then the sun came up the next day, and Riza decided that she had been very, very wrong. Because that Saturday absolutely _sucked,_ and the fact that he couldn’t speak was clearly setting in for Ed, who she found crying in frustration when the words died on his tongue and dripped from his mind, unsteady fingers unable to write those few words he’d managed to retain. He wasn’t nearly as sick as before, but he was distinctly miserable, suffering from wounds she couldn’t heal and monsters she couldn’t fight and without his limited vocabulary to inform her of what he needed, she was stuck. They were _both_ stuck.

So Saturday was absolutely awful. Sunday was somehow worse, she didn’t get a wink of sleep between Monday night and Tuesday morning, and Wednesday’s weather was about as dreary and gray and miserable as she felt.

Rain was practically flooding down from the clouds—no thunder, thank God, she had no doubt that the loud, seemingly source-less booming and flashes of lightning would frighten Ed even more—and she tugged her umbrella into submission with a sigh, peering mournfully at the twisted spokes as she ducked into the apartment building. This one had served her faithfully since Ishval, but its time might well be coming, if the persistent trickle of icy rainwater down her cheek was any particular indication. It probably still had some life in it, though.

At least the boys were warm and dry, if not particularly happy. Quietly, she fit her key into the lock—it was fairly early in the morning, so for all she knew, Ed was still asleep—and slipped inside, locking it behind her. Al, sitting on the couch in a haphazard pile of alchemy texts and notebooks, peeked up at her before relaxing. “Morning, Riza.”

“Good morning, Al.” Except it was _wet_ and _cold_ and what even was the _point_ of rain in winter if it wasn’t cold enough to make it snow? She hung her umbrella on the tiny coatrack Maes had insisted Roy put up when he got the place. “Find anything interesting?” she asked, inwardly kicking herself for how useless the question was as she nodded to his stack of books.

Al brightened. “Actually, I _did_ find something that could explain how they screwed with Brother’s mind so much—I mean, I think I’m worrying the librarians with how many books I check out on PTSD and torture and stuff, but there _are_ cases of conditioning being used to reinforce some kind of twisted ‘training’, and if you could use alchemy on certain neurotransmitters, it would only reinforce it.” He faltered. “I…I don’t know how to _fix_ it, though.”

“But it’s a start,” Riza pointed out—and it _was._ It also narrowed down possible suspects; if those monsters needed an alchemist to hurt Ed the way they had, it meant there were only so many people they could be working with. And using alchemy to alter brain chemistry had to be a very specific field. She’d have to check with Roy to see if there was anyone on record with it. “And it’s far more than we knew before.” She offered him a smile. “Well done, Al.”

Al seemed to almost preen under the praise, and something in her softened. How rare had it been for the brothers to hear they’d done something good? That they’d succeeded? In the military, criticism was more common than praise, simply because doing things right was what was _expected_ of you, but even adults could chafe under the constant harshness. For a twelve-year-old and eleven-year-old to be thrown headfirst into it…well, she suspected that much of their self-esteem had been shot before Ed was taken, even if they hid it magnificently. She let her smile grow slightly, helping him re-organize his library books. “How long did it take you to get through all of these?”

“Five days. Could’ve done it quicker, but Ed…” There was no resentment, no frustration there—just weariness that didn’t belong in a fourteen-year-old. “I—I’m sorry, Riza, I shouldn’t complain—”

Riza shook her head, gently straightening one of the stacks. “You have every right,” she murmured. “This hasn’t just affected your brother, it’s hit…all of us. You more than Roy and I, because you knew him best. You knew him when any risk of _this—_ ” she waved a hand as if to encompass everything that had happened to them, the good, the bad, and the ugly “—was far-off and impossible.”

 _You certainly knew him far better than Roy and I did. Far better than we ever bothered to know him._ The guilt curled in her chest, sudden and heavy, and she closed her eyes, suddenly exhausted despite the rare full night’s sleep she’d gotten. _Maybe if we’d tried a little harder, he wouldn’t have been taken. Maybe—_

She gave herself a brisk shake. This wasn’t helping anyone, especially not Al. The wallowing on her part had to stop.

“He’s better than he was,” Al said softly, and she pulled herself out of her thoughts with a hum of agreement. “Speech aside, he’s—he can read a _little_ bit now, and write a few words, and walk on his own a little longer. I—I have to keep reminding myself that he’s getting _better,_ because he thinks he _isn’t.”_ The armor seemed to set its jaw, Al lifting his chin as exhaustion gave way to determination. “I’ve started keeping a log, you know—of how much better he’s gotten, things he can do now that he couldn’t before. So I can prove it to him when he thinks he’s failing.”

Riza blinked—and then warmth blossomed in her chest, bright and brilliant and chasing away the chill of the rain. If these were the people who’d inherit the country after they were gone, maybe there was still hope. They were certainly far better than she’d ever been. “That sounds like a wonderful idea, Al.”

He beamed, so bright within the armor that she could practically _see him,_ bronze eyes and short blond hair and a smile as devastatingly sweet as his big brother’s. “I think he actually slept last night,” he chirped, sounding overwhelmingly proud of his brother. “I didn’t want to wake him up, so he might still be dozing.”

Riza hummed quietly, getting to her feet. “May I go see him?”

“You don’t have to ask,” Al said matter-of-factly. “He adores you. And Roy. He’d be more upset if you didn’t show up at all.”

Riza paused, oddly touched. It wasn’t like she hadn’t put two-and-two together, hadn’t figured out that Ed’s implicit trust in them came from more than just necessity by now, but to hear it from his brother—from the only person she’d allow to send her and Roy away, the only person she fully, one-hundred percent trusted the fragile remnants of Fullmetal with…it felt almost like a victory. Another small success in the endless wars they all waged against their demons. “Thank you, Al.”

“And—and for what it’s worth—” he glanced up at her, suddenly timid. “I’m glad you both stayed, too. And that you’re here.”

That warmth in her chest spread, tingling happily through her whole being and chasing away the chill of the rain. “It’s worth a great deal,” she said softly, and squeezed his hand. “If you need me, just call.”

Al fidgeted shyly, but she could tell he was pleased. “I will.”

Practically glowing with hope, her fingers crossed that maybe— _just maybe—_ today would be a good day, she made her way down the hall and to the little converted guest room. “Ed?” she called softly, rapping her knuckles against the door. “It’s Riza. Are you in there?” _Stupid question._ She doubted he’d be anywhere else—

There was a soft squeak, and she waited patiently as the door creaked open, wide golden eyes blinking up at her. He was still in his pajamas—loose shirts and shorts that were just a little bit thinner and softer than day clothes—and his hair was a sleep-tangled mess, flaring out every-which-way. She bit back an audible coo at how adorable he looked, one small hand rubbing sleepily at his eyes.

He looked tired—tired, but not terrified, not overwhelmed by nightmares and the following shame. _A good day._ Maybe they’d get one after all.

The drowsy confusion on his face cleared to relief and that absolutely terrifying adoration, and he smiled shyly, pulling tentatively on her sleeve. She let him guide her into his room, noting the clumsily-made bed fondly as he tugged her over to the window. Puzzled, she eyed the rain sheeting down like a waterfall pouring upon the city. “Did you see something, _malo sveta?”_

Ed opened his mouth, then made a wordless noise of frustration, tears welling up as he visibly fought to find words and came up with nothing. Riza’s heart twisted and she reached to comfort him—before he pointed at the window again, frail fingers fumbling hesitantly for the latch. She caught at his hand gently and he let out a whine, shaking his head as the words refused to come.

And then he brightened, his eyes lighting up as he turned toward his notebook, set neatly on the bookshelf. Riza let go of him, puzzled, and let him flip through it before he held it out to her with trembling hands, golden eyes shining and guileless and full of hope.

There, written on the page in an unsteady, shaking hand, letters improperly capitalized and twisted, but still recognizable, was the word _sky._

_Sky._

Ed had—

Ed had _written_ something.

Elation burst in her chest at this massive _leap_ forward, and Riza resisted the urge to sweep him up in her arms and swing him around and around until the glee in her heart abated. It would likely startle him more than comfort him, but she found a smile sweeping over her face anyway, beaming so wide it almost hurt. “That’s _wonderful, solnyshko._ Have you shown Al yet?”

Ed shook his head and let out another frustrated noise, before pointing stubbornly to the window again. Riza blinked, certain she was missing something here, until a memory filtered through her musings:

_“Wouldn’t let me see the—the sky.”_

The sky. That precious, intangible thing that to him meant both freedom and safety, that meant wonder and hope and joy. The thing that cemented the fact that he was home and safe just as much as Al’s presence did.

He’d asked her to see the stars once upon a time. Was it any wonder that he wanted to see the storm in all its glory, too?

“Want to go up to the roof, _ílie mou?”_

He beamed, confirming Riza’s suspicions, and closed his notebook, setting it on the shelf with the utmost care. She found herself smiling fondly at him, unhooking his white coat from the peg by the door and draping it over his shoulders, winding the scarf around his neck as he managed to wriggle his arms through it and zip it up. Carefully, she tugged up the hood, before squeezing his hand. “We can’t stay out for very long, though. You’re still sick, and getting wet won’t help.”

Ed made a face, but took her hand obediently. Al tilted his head at them curiously as she made her way to the door, rescuing her battered umbrella from its stand and handing it off to Ed, whose eyes widened almost comically. “It doesn’t look like much,” she informed him in a mischievous tone, her voice lowered as if she was telling him a great secret, “but it works. It’ll keep you safe.”

He eyed her suspiciously, fiddling with the clasp—before squeaking as it popped open. Al jolted as well, and Riza winced apologetically as Ed held it in an unsteady metal hand, his eyes wide with wonder at something as simple as an umbrella. He glanced between her and it as she pocketed her key, opening the door, before trotting out after her.

The walk to the roof was one short flight of stairs and a heavy metal door, but she held it open with little issue, fighting back a laugh as Ed poked the umbrella out in front of him like a shield before stepping out. He kicked experimentally at a puddle before holding out a timid hand. A soft squeak escaped as cold rainwater trickled over it.

Riza watched, that star-bright elation dimming to something softer, warmer, sweeter as Ed whirled to her, beaming. For the first time since they’d found himself, since he’d called them, since they’d all been reunited, he looked…whole. He looked certain of himself. Not quite like Fullmetal—there was still something softer, shyer, gentler about him than Fullmetal had ever been—but for a moment, he looked like he truly felt _real._

As real as they’d believed him to be all along.

 _Rain in winter._ She supposed she didn’t mind it so much, not as she watched Ed spin, dropping the umbrella to the side and shaking the hood off his head as he held his hands out, _laughing._ Laughing _freely,_ his head tipped back and his smile shining like a sun all on its own.

And Riza…well, Riza could pretend that the water trailing down her face was one-hundred percent rain. “Ed,” she called, watching as he spun toward her, golden eyes shining through the rain as he beamed at her. “Ed, _solnyshko,_ you’re going to get sick again.”

His face fell, but not into tears—into a faint, stubborn pout that nearly wiped away all her better judgement. She watched through silvery sheets of rain as he opened his mouth to protest, waiting for the frustration to dawn on him again as she sighed softly, striding forward to grab the umbrella—

“P…p-plea…se.”

She froze inches away, her eyes widening at the sound of that voice. It had only been two weeks since she’d heard it last, but it felt like an eternity—an eternity ended by that small, halting voice, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. Like summer sweeping away the devastating chill of midwinter.

Ed blinked up at her, bangs pasted to his face from the onslaught of freezing rain, color high in his otherwise pale cheeks and shivers beginning to run through his frail body. “P-plea…s-se,” he repeated, and latched onto her sleeve. “M…Mom.”

And if his voice had startled her, shocked her, then _that—_ that exquisitely terrible, terrifying word—swept through her like a storm of its own. _Mom. He called me—I can’t be—am I—_

 _No._ There had to be _some_ explanation for this. Maybe—maybe they’d been out in the cold too long. Maybe he’d mistaken her for his actual mother, or he was getting sick again. She couldn’t be—she already _was,_ to her own mind and heart and soul, but she _couldn’t_ be. It was too— _frightening._

She nearly barked a terrified laugh. She could face down gunmen, rogue alchemists, soldiers, the worst of the worst and the best of the best without batting an eye, but _this_ shut her down. _This_ scared her. _You’re afraid that he might actually care about you like that. That he thinks of you as a—a—as his—_

“ _Malo sveta,”_ she said softly. “It’s Riza, remember? Not Trisha Elric.” _That has to be it, has to be, he’s delirious, that’s it—_

Ed’s shoulders hunched slightly, golden eyes fixing on the patch of ground between them. “I…k-kno…w,” he croaked. “Ri…za.” He lifted his gaze to hers, his expression shy. “Mom?”

 _He’s asking,_ whatever part of her brain was still functioning reminded her. _Asking if he can call you that. If it’s okay._

It wasn’t okay. She was a soldier and a murderer and absolutely delusional because somehow she’d talked herself into thinking that maybe she was worthy of being a _mother_ to this shining soul, to the equally brilliant one sorting through his notes one story down. That the blood on her hands wouldn’t seep into every single part of them, that she wouldn’t poison them with her regrets, her fears, her cowardice.

She could never be like Gracia Hughes, like Trisha Elric, like Sara Rockbell.

She was a _monster,_ not a mother. No matter how much she loved the kids in her care—but _god,_ she loved them. Loved them more than anything in the world, two of the few scraps of goodness she’d been offered after all her wrong decisions. She would die for them, kill for them, burn down entire worlds for them without thinking twice.

Was that what made a mother? Not just having the kid—but caring about them so much it hurt? Supporting them even when they were broken beyond repair?

 _Loving_ them?

_Can monsters be mothers?_

Monsters could be parents. Monsters could have children, but they didn’t love them. Did they?

Was she a monster? A mother? Both?

_When is a monster not a monster?_

Ed shivered in front of her, his eyes worried as he clung to her sleeve. Trust—there was so much _trust_ written all over his face, heartbreakingly open and wholehearted.

_When someone loves it._

Riza swallowed thickly, unable to pretend that the water running down her face was purely from rain anymore. There would be no going back, not after this. Not in any way that wouldn’t break both their hearts—but there was no way forward without lying to herself.

“Yes, Ed?”

His eyes filled with those brilliant tears of relief, and she gasped as he launched himself into her arms with a sob. Her vision blurred, and she found herself sinking to the ground, holding him, cradling him, this precious, _precious_ life in her hands.

Mother and son wept together in the rain, a gaping wound in both their chests beginning to heal over at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told y'all it'd be special! This is a turning point for both of them, and I'm excited. Who else is excited? Mama Hawk ftw! 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. Leave a comment or a kudos if you did (and don't be afraid, I love long comments!), and I'll see you next week (with at LEAST three times the angst. Minimum). <3


	31. leaving my healing heart with a new scar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s just me, kiddo. It’s just Roy.”
> 
> _Roy?_
> 
> Slowly, Ed managed to peel one eye open, his lids sticky with tears. A blur made itself clear, and then that blur solidified into dark eyes and dark hair and a kind, tired smile. Timidly, he brought his trembling flesh hand up to grab at one of the man’s, and he took it without hesitation, giving it a gentle squeeze.
> 
> _Roy._ Roy, who meant warm hugs and soft blankets and strong, proud hands ruffling his hair gently. Roy, who spaced out while doing the dishes and pretended not to have nightmares just so Ed would be a little less scared. Roy, who gave Al a key to his apartment and treated them both like his own kids. Roy, who’d asked Ed to pick out a frame for the picture he’d drawn him so he could keep it on his desk, and promised to get magnets so they could put any future drawings on the fridge.
> 
> Roy, who’d spent months taking care of him without complaint. Who gave him hugs whenever he wanted them and knew what he needed before he asked. Roy, who didn’t need him to speak to understand what he was looking for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Beautiful Times](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gfA-tPKPoNs) by Owl City ft. Lindsey Stirling
> 
> Ed suffers a really bad panic attack as the result of the a nightmare, tries to deal with the aftermath himself, and has another panic attack. It's not good, folks :( but there's parental roy, so...y'all get what you came for!

_Cold fingers danced over his chest. Ed whimpered, straining to get away as dark eyes narrowed gleefully. “You thought you could escape us, little monster?” Those fingers wound into his hair and_ pulled, _jerking his head upwards; the tears blurred his vision, but he could still make out Their face, Their eyes, Their smile. “Thought your precious friends would protect you?”_

Want—Mama— _The thought came to him unbidden and he sobbed, curling up tighter, smaller as They pulled viciously at his hair again._ Want Al. _But Al wasn’t coming, no one was coming and They’d found him again—_

_“Crying for your mommy?” Another sob pulled from his chest as the second figure’s hands, broader and smoother, grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at Them. “How pathetic. So much good work ruined.” They tsked, and Ed wailed because that cold, clinical tone meant_ pain, _meant punishment meant the barbed wire and broken glass in his cell, meant being whipped and burned and_ hurt _until he couldn’t think at all. “We’ll have to get rid of that pretty little mind entirely. You see, before, we were going to leave some of the dregs intact, but—”_

_“But now that they’ve gone and ruined it,” the third drawled, “we’ll just take everything you have left to give. Your price might not be as high, but at least we can keep you around for…stress relief.”_

_His vision swam with tears, but no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn’t seem to_ move— _he screamed as a knife was plunged into his side,_ a deterrent, _the first whispered as he was thrown over Their shoulder. All he could do was cry and cry and wait to be saved, he couldn’t run couldn’t fight couldn’t—_

_They reached the front door, Ed sobbing and trembling as They laughed and murmured amongst themselves, before— “Al!” He reached for his little brother desperately as he looked up from his place on the couch, surrounded by books. Al would protect him, Al would save him, Al still cared Al wouldn’t leave—_

_Soulfire eyes met his, and his brother tilted his head._

_“Equivalent exchange, big brother.”_

No—nonononono don’t send me back please don’t send me back I can be good I can I can I can— _please—_

_Their laughter echoed in his ears as he was thrown back into the cell, his brother’s blank soulfire eyes burned into his mind as the Bar slowly, inched malevolently toward his cheek, closer and closer and closer—_

_Black bile splashed into his water dish as he scooted away as much as he could, barbed-wire chains tight around his wrists. He stared in horror as corpse-white hands clasped the end of the glowing Bar, a mess of dark hair and pulsating organs and ivory bones turning his way. Six red eyes glinted at him._

_The abomination he’d brought to life pressed the Bar to his cheek, and Ed screamed._

He was still screaming as he woke up.

Ed bolted upright with a sob, hands digging into his bangs as Ree tumbled from his grasp. Tremors shook his body, painful ones that made him shake all over, made his teeth chatter and his body ache as his shrieks died down to whimpers. _Bad dream—just a bad dream, stupidstupidstupid, calm down calm down calm down._ He curled up, hiccupping as terror shook his insides, his flesh fingers sliding into his mouth. _Want Mama want Mama want Mom—_

But Riza wasn’t here. Riza had her own apartment and her own life and she wasn’t _here_ and it was wrong of him to want her to be because he was so— _ruined,_ and broken, and _sick._ He patted at the sheets for Ree, thin whines breaking past his lips despite his best efforts—and recoiled as his fingers touched something wet.

No— _no…_

He wilted, a keening sob pulling from his chest as he pushed the blankets back. He’d done it _again,_ he didn’t mean to but he’d done it he’d been _bad,_ he’d made a mess and ruined the sheets and he was awful horrible _no-good should die—_ and now he needed to find Al, because Al usually helped but Al wasn’t in the room which meant he was in the study and Ed had to walk _in the dark to the study_. Fear clawed at his insides and he whimpered again, barely catching himself before he could start chewing on his fingers again.

_Al._

_Find Al._

Except when he managed to slip out of the bed, tiny, involuntary noises of shame and disgust escaping as he shifted awkwardly, unsteadily, all he could do was _freeze._ Because Al—

_Equivalent exchange, big brother._

Miserably, he sank to the ground, tears gliding down his face as more shudders wracked his body. He couldn’t find Al. He was enough as a burden as it was, and Al was probably getting annoyed, getting frustrated, caring less and less and hating more and more ( _you deserve it,_ he reminded himself, and sniffled pathetically, _you deserve it all)_. He couldn’t give him more work. He couldn’t— _speed up the process._

He patted blindly at the ground, trying and failing to adjust to the shadows, before his automail grasped something he could vaguely recognize as soft. He tugged at it, hoping to find button eyes and blue fluff—and yelped as the damp red bedspread tumbled on top of him. He shook even harder, struggling to push himself to his feet before tripping on the blanket and _fwump-_ ing to the floor. Tears rose again as he tried to pull himself up into a kneeling position. _Hate this hate this hate this…_

No. No, he had to focus, he had to—had to do this himself. He knew where the washer and dryer were. He knew—sort of—how to use one. He just had to stand up, get the sheets, find some clean clothes, and _walk._

_It shouldn’t be this hard,_ he thought in frustration, trying to bundle the stained and ruined sheets up enough to carry them. _You’ve done more—you’ve fought people, you’ve climbed whole mountains and survived on deserted islands and—and everything. You’re s’pose to be_ better _now. Why is it still so hard?_

_Why—why am I not good enough anymore?_

A hysterical laugh—or a sob?—bubbled out of his throat. He’d never been good enough for anyone, always turned everything he touched to dust and ash and _metal._ Now he was just—just _worse,_ ‘cause he couldn’t even fix it.

_Worthless worthless worthless worthless—_

He managed to successfully stumble out into the hallway after ten minutes of struggling, wobbling unsteadily down the hall with the heavy (probably not heavy, given that he was so _stupid_ and _weak,_ given that he just couldn’t— _hold things,_ that he was _broken)_ bundle of bedding. His skin crawled as he wandered through the dark, pitiful whimpers leaking from his throat no matter how hard he tried to choke them back, to remind himself that he was supposed to be _better_ than this.

Light. There was a flicker of light coming from beneath the study door— _he was going the right way he was he was he was—_ and Ed fought even harder to swallow his sobs, trembling even harder as he wrestled with the urge to just crumple to the ground and cry until someone put everything to rights again.

It got harder and harder the farther he managed to walk. The light framing the door made strange, scary shadows flicker along the wall, and he nearly shrieked when something brushed his foot before he realized it was the tail end of the sheet dragging on the ground. The tears began to drip silently, and he didn’t want to try and wipe his eyes and drop everything in the middle of the hallway and make _another_ mess, so they just fell and fell and fell.

The hallway seemed to stretch on forever and ever, getting longer with every shuddering, unsteady step. He listed sideways, yelping in pain as his shoulder collided with the wall, the tears coming faster. _Want Mom want Riza want—stopstopstop stop bein’ such a baby you can do this you can you can you can._ He forced himself not to close his eyes, tried to ignore the feeling of the shadows crawling up his skin and sinking their claws into him. _It’s just a hallway. You’ve walked down it a dozen times during the day._

But during the day, things were—not easy, but simpler. There were no shadows to hide in, and there were people who cared enough for him to protect him, and he was (mostly) _safe._ In the dark—in the dark, he was alone, always alone, and Their voices were always waiting in the shadows, claws reaching and smiles dripping poison. And Al was usually there at night, at least for a little bit—long enough to keep him from crumbling completely after nightmares. But he’d been coming less and less, certain that he was doing better, that he was _healing,_ and Ed…

Ed wasn’t. Not enough. Not quickly enough to be the big brother Al deserved, and the almost-son Riza Hawkeye would want. Sure, he’d written _a word_ and he was learning to read again, _slowly,_ but he wasn’t—still wasn’t _enough._ Smart enough, fast enough strong enough, _good enough_ for them.

He was just— _broken._ Broken and stupid and shattered into a billion tiny pieces and they kept trying to put him back together, but he knew better. No matter how much better he got, he’d never be who they wanted him to be again. He’d never be _Fullmetal_ again. He’d never be brave, never be strong, never be anything but this battered little shell of a child that didn’t have the strength to walk on his own, let alone perform alchemy again.

His foot caught on the blanket and he let out a gasp of pain, tumbling to the ground. The pain of the fall jarred his body, the sheets spilling from his arms and onto the floor as he sprawled for a moment, blinking dizzily in the darkness. Then, slowly, he curled into a ball and backed himself up against the painted walls—

And burst into tears.

It was stupid, it was _so stupid,_ he’d been so close—probably—and he hadn’t even been panicking at the darkness—not much, anyways—but he felt so _small,_ so fragile and stupid and the shadows were reaching for him with clawed hands and shrieking laughter, phantoms howling with glee as he sobbed into his knees.

He wanted Riza—he wanted Mom, and he wanted Roy and he wanted Al and he wanted to be back in his room and asleep and _clean._ Instead he was huddled in the dark and bawling like a _baby_ while his nightmares came to life, soaking wet and sick and _itchy._ Ree was back in his room, and he wanted so badly to crawl back and get her, to find Al or Roy and beg them to help, to sit here and cry and cry and cry until someone came and put him back together.

But no one would. And he didn’t deserve to be put back together, not after what he’d done. He’d let Mom down, he let Riza down, he let Roy down and Al down—god, he’d let Al down so many times, _so many._ He kept failing and failing and failing. He deserved to—he deserved to _die._

He almost _wanted_ to. Not enough to try—he wasn’t brave enough, wasn’t smart enough to erase his mark on the world. Before, he’d stayed his hand because Al needed him, because he needed to save his brother and maybe, if there was enough of him left over from this wild goose chase, to fix himself too. But now…now he couldn’t help Al at all. Now he was just a stupid, hollow shell pretending to be human, instead of a stupid, reckless kid pretending to be a soldier.

Ed didn’t know which was worse.

He couldn’t breathe anymore—he couldn’t _breathe—_

“Ed?” He whimpered and huddled up against the wall, frightened whines pulling from his chest as he clawed at his throat. He couldn’t breathe—he _couldn’t breathe—_ “Ed, sweetheart, I need you to look at me.” Gentle hands—human hands, covered in callouses, warm and soft ( _not Al’s not Al’s not Al’s)—_ cupped his face and he pulled away, everything in him screaming to run from the touch (except for a tiny, tiny voice that told him to trust it, to trust the person holding him). “Oh, buddy, it’s okay. S’okay. You must be really tired, huh?”

He was. He was so, so tired, he was _exhausted_ and he wanted to go _home,_ he wanted—he wanted—

“It’s just me, kiddo. It’s just Roy.”

_Roy?_

Slowly, Ed managed to peel one eye open, his lids sticky with tears. A blur made itself clear, and then that blur solidified into dark eyes and dark hair and a kind, tired smile. Timidly, he brought his trembling flesh hand up to grab at one of the man’s, and he took it without hesitation, giving it a gentle squeeze.

_Roy._ Roy, who meant warm hugs and soft blankets and strong, proud hands ruffling his hair gently. Roy, who spaced out while doing the dishes and pretended not to have nightmares just so Ed would be a little less scared. Roy, who gave Al a key to his apartment and treated them both like his own kids. Roy, who’d asked Ed to pick out a frame for the picture he’d drawn him so he could keep it on his desk, and promised to get magnets so they could put any future drawings on the fridge.

Roy, who’d spent months taking care of him without complaint. Who gave him hugs whenever he wanted them and knew what he needed before he asked. Roy, who didn’t need him to speak to understand what he was looking for.

Roy, who was—who was more a father to him than Van Hohenheim was.

Fresh tears made his vision swim, and he forgot everything—forgot how much of a mess he was, forgot the fact that he didn’t deserve comfort, that he didn’t deserve to want them there, that he’d been _bad_ and _stupid_ and woken his guardian up because of his bad dream and failure to take care of himself—and launched himself into Roy’s arms with a wail, burying his face in his shoulder. Warm, strong arms cradled him immediately, tucking his head into the crook of his neck. “It’s okay. It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

“I-is n-not,” he sobbed, twining his fingers in his shirt. “M-made mess— _again—_ d-didn’ mean t-to, didn’t m-mean to, m’sorry!”

“Oh, sweetheart…” Roy made a sad noise, and Ed hated himself in that moment because he’d made Roy _sad,_ he upset him, he was a _stupid brat._ “It’s not your fault. I wish you’d come to me for him instead of trying to handle it on your own, but we can talk about that in the morning.”

Ed would prefer not to talk about the terrifying journey down the nightmare hallway _forever,_ but disagreeing was bad and he did it often enough anyways that he managed to nod into his shoulder, trembling. Roy’s hands wound around his, and he sobbed again as he drew back, tilting his chin up. “Alright, kiddo, here’s what I want you to do.”

He shuddered, before falling still. Directions—he could follow directions. He was _supposed_ to follow directions, he could, he _could,_ he could be good.

“I’m gonna walk you to the bathroom. It’s late at night, so we’re not gonna do a whole bath, but you can clean yourself off, and I’m gonna go get you some clean pajamas.” Roy squeezed his hands gently. “Then I want you to head into my room while I take care of the sheets, and get tucked in, okay?”

He could—he could do that. He could—

Sleep in…someone else’s room. Like this. Right after he’d already had an accident. He shook his head wildly, hiccupping. “What i-if—m-mess happens ‘g-gain—w-wha’ i-if m’b-bad—”

“Then we both get clean clothes, I take the sheets down to the washer, and we grab all the clean blankets and go sleep on the couch.” Roy’s voice was firm. “And you’re _not_ bad, Ed. This isn’t your fault, and honestly, it’s better than you staggering in and bleeding all over my nice clean couch like you used to.”

Ed flinched. _Bad—was bad then, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”_

“I was joking, sweetheart.” Roy got to his feet slowly, and Ed let himself be pulled up with a whimper. Black eyes blinked apologetically down at him. “Do you think you can walk, Ed?”

He could. He’d gotten better _(but not good enough)_ , gotten stronger ( _not strong enough)_ , he could walk a _little_ now—not much, but he could make it down the hallway. He could. He _could._

Except—

Except he was so _tired,_ and felt seconds from another meltdown. Except not being hugged felt terrifying, and he wanted to cling to Roy and never let go. Except—he wanted his _dad._ His real dad, not Hohenheim. The person who’d actually taken care of him instead of the person who was supposed to and just _didn’t._

So he shook his head, swaying unsteadily, and let himself be scooped up. Roy made that sad noise again as they headed down the hall, away from the pile of ruined sheets and wrecked nights. “You really need to eat more, buddy.”

He knew he did, he _knew,_ but it was—it was _hard._ Eating was hard, and reminding himself he wasn’t in the cell was hard, and he just wanted to sleep. He just wanted something to be _easy_ for once.

He couldn’t help whimpering when Roy deposited him in the bathroom, scared of being left alone again, but he managed to stay calm long enough to use a washcloth and clean himself up. When he dared to open the door a sliver, clean clothes and a blanket were folded just outside, and he changed into them gratefully.

Clean and dry at last, the fluffy, soft blanket draped safely around his shoulders, he stumbled the short distance down the hall to Roy’s room. He paused, unsure if he should wait to step inside—but the shadows flickered, red eyes seeming to glint from within them, and he choked on a cry and scrambled in.

Four walls closed in, cutting off the feeling that he was floating away, his racing heart steadying just a bit. A big bed that looked tantalizingly soft was settled against the far wall, the sheets rumpled but welcoming. Ed sank onto the edge of it uncertainly, worrying at the hem of his shirt as he tucked his legs under himself and waited. _It’s okay,_ he tried to assure himself. _He said you could be in here. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay._

He sniffled despite himself, and hid his face in his hands. _Pathetic._ He was _pathetic._ He should’ve been over this by now. He should be _okay_ now. Maybe not—doing alchemy anymore, ‘cause that was bad, but he was supposed to be strong for Al, and here he was crying in his superior’s room after having an accident. Which was the opposite of strong, really; it was _weak_ and _Ed_ was weak and he was _so, so tired._

The door creaked open and he jolted back with a squeak, instinctively gathering the blanket around himself. “Hey,” Roy soothed, closing the door after he slipped in, holding up his hands (hands that had killed people, hurt people, but had never been anything but gentle and comforting to Ed). “It’s just me, kiddo. You feeling any better?”

_Yes—no—I dunno._ He shrugged, clutching the blanket tight, worrying the fabric between two metal fingers to keep himself from reaching toward Roy and begging to be carried again. _Need to be better. Not good enough._

Roy plopped down beside him with a quiet huff, and Ed bit back a whimper of relief as he was wrapped securely in the blanket and pulled into his arms. “There we go,” he murmured, and Ed blinked as he grinned down at him. “You’re like a caterpillar in a blanket cocoon.”

_Caterpillar…in a…_ It was such a nonsensical thought that the remaining panic drifted away, leaving only exhaustion and that terrifying hunger for comfort that roared a thousand times louder than it ever had before. “S…s-slee…py,” he managed to rasp, burying his face in Roy’s shoulder and letting his eyelids droop. Words had exploded out of him after the nightmare, but now they were dripping away again and he just wanted to rest. “S-sta…y?”

He felt Roy shift, felt the familiar pressure of blankets around them. If he nestled close enough, he could hear Roy’s heartbeat—deep and strong as thunder, tolling its purpose like the clear ringing of a bell. “I’m not going anywhere, Ed.”

Drowsiness crashed over Ed like a dark, drowning wave. He let it carry him away, safe at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Ed: I am so sorry for everything im putting you through. No I will not stop (not until the story is over >:3)
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed this week's chapter! Next week will have...no Ed, surprisingly, but I'm making up for it with HUGHES! Leave a comment or a kudos if you liked it (please) and I'll see you next week! Thanks for reading <3


	32. find yourself lost in the dark and you can't see

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only signing those damn papers, though, would give him complete control of that particular playing field. Only formally adopting those boys would remove them from the military's reach for good.
> 
>  
> 
> _So why haven't I done it?_
> 
>  
> 
> Roy let out a low growl of frustration. _It's just a signature. One signature and they';re safe forever. One single scrawl and they're yours. Two simple words--your own goddamn name--and Bradley can't touch them._ His head thudded lightly against his desk as he slumped over. “So why the hell aren’t I signing?” he rasped to himself.
> 
> “I could ask you the same thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Count on Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yc6T9iY9SOU) by Bruno Mars. This is just a great song for Hughes and Roy tbh. I hope you guys enjoy all the bff feels! Also, yeah, Roy's formally adopting them. Surprise~

_“Nothing’s turned up out here, but I’ll keep searching. You keep that kid safe, though.”_

“Thank you, Colonel Beckett.” Roy resisted the urge to massage his temples, a headache pulsing relentlessly against his skull. “Keep us posted—and stay alive.”

There was a chuckle, low and hoarse. _“Right back atcha, Mustang.”_ There was a click as the Tectonic Alchemist hung up on her end, and Roy slumped over his desk, setting the phone down with numb fingers. _So either they haven’t fled west, or they’re managing to avoid scrutiny…let’s hope it’s the former._ He’d reached out to as many of his old allies as he possibly could after Ed had returned home from the hospital, determined to widen the net as much as he possibly could. Some weren’t necessarily friends, but there were many people who owed him favors in the military, and slowly but surely, he was covering all of the main areas—and that was without including Chris Mustang and her well-disguised intelligence operation.

Olivier Armstrong to the deadly North (she hated him, but had grudgingly agreed to do it for the kid and had threatened to stab him when he joked about her having a heart), Calliope Beckett handling the chaotic and war-torn West, Aunt Chris’s girls weaseling answers out of everyone in Central—hell, even Izumi Curtis had offered her aid in covering the South, determined to annihilate Ed’s captors. He almost hoped they’d fled somewhere within her reach, because the carnage she’d unleash if they had would be _magnificent._

But even if they caught the bastards—even if Roy got to exact his well-deserved revenge upon them, to burn them and break them until there weren’t even ashes left—it wouldn’t fix Ed. It wouldn’t put his lost, frightened subordinate back together—and now, nearly three months in, Roy was starting to wonder if nothing ever would.

The kid was getting better, that was for sure, but with every step forward he managed, something always managed to shove him back even further. The incident two nights ago definitely proved that. His heart still ached at the memory of the talk they’d had that morning, of the look of absolute defeat and self-loathing on that pale, sickly face.

 _Why didn’t you get help?_ he’d asked softly, gazing at the trembling creature wrapped up in every blanket Roy could find for him. _I’m not blaming you, kiddo, I just want to understand. Al was just down the hall, and I gladly would’ve helped you. We don’t blame you—we’d never—help me understand, Ed._

Ed had flinched back, tears welling up in those wide, frightened golden eyes. He’d opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head with a quiet sob. Roy had felt terrible almost immediately; Ed had a hard time speaking as it was, and to ask him a question like that… _Poor kid,_ he’d thought, his heart aching, but then Ed had spoken. _Was scared,_ he’d whispered, his voice fraying at the edges as he hid his face behind his bangs. _Bad dream—Al mad. Scary. L-let Them—_ And then he’d cut off, clinging to Roy desperately. _Don’t g-go!_

God, Roy had wanted so badly to stay. To just _hold_ him, comfort him until his fears dissipated and the tears slowed, but if he didn’t hold up his end of the deal with Bradley then—well, Ed would be _gone._ Thrown into some faraway asylum, shipped off to a hospital or disposed of in some tragic _accident_ that no one could prove was intentional _._ Riza would be there soon enough, ready and willing to comfort him. He…he had to go back to playing the long game.

He’d been late for work anyway, staying just a little too long to make it on time. Al had looked between them when he’d offered both of them an extra hug, confused but delighted, and Ed…Ed had stared up at him, lower lip wobbling, before burying his face in his coat with a low whine. All he could do—without giving in, without risking Ed’s life, without doing more harm than good—was pry him off and ruffle his hair before bidding them both farewell and forcing himself to walk through the door.

His heart had broken a little more with every step.

He closed his eyes at the memory, fingers curling more tightly around his pen as he paused in the form he was supposed to be filling out. Something sharp and painful curled in his chest and he exhaled roughly, tilting his head back. “Goddamnit,” he whispered. _“Goddamnit.”_

This office was as much a home to him and his team as his apartment was to those boys, but it was filled with the ghosts of a boy with fire in his eyes and a roar that would shatter every wall put in front of him. Every time the door opened, Roy found himself looking for a red coat. With every folder thrown on his desk, he expected to see Fullmetal’s illegible handwriting and to hear his smug, _This good enough for you, bastard?_ He kept checking every single report for the rampant destruction and flashy tactics that so often followed in the Hero of the People’s wake, for the idiotic selflessness and inability to accept any genuine praise. And every time he said anything relating to height (or lack thereof), he paused, waiting to hear indignant shrieking and Al’s exasperated _Bro-ther!_

But it never came. Not once. No screams followed the word _little._ Every word one every report was readable, if not entirely tidy. The door was knocked on or shoved open, but never kicked, and all he saw was blue, blue, Amestrian blue.

His youngest subordinate was _gone._ Physically, yes, they’d found him, but mentally— _emotionally—_

He gazed blindly down at the stack of forms before him, some part of him still holding out hope that everything could go back to normal suddenly swamped in grief. He’d known from day one that Ed might never be Fullmetal again, that he might never have the strength or fortitude or courage to do _alchemy_ again, but…well, now it was becoming clearer and clearer that Ed might never get back to normal at _all._ That whatever tiny pieces of the soldier that had called him _bastard_ and used his blinding intellect to shock doubters speechless were dying, flickering out, leaving only the scared child who jumped at shadows in his place.

The Fullmetal Alchemist as he knew him was _dead._ Roy had known that, had accepted that. But the fact that Ed might never step foot in these offices again, that he might never be an alchemist again at _all—_ that was terrifying. The world was better with Edward Elric in it at any capacity, but it was at its best when his foolish, fearless subordinate was working with him to serve their country. And Roy…Roy realized now that might never happen again. _Ever._

He felt terrible for even thinking about it. He loved— _loved,_ and that was just as terrifying to admit as ever, that he _adored_ the sweet, gentle shadow whose picture sat framed on his desk—the Ed he knew now, in all his brokenness. He’d kill to protect him. He’d _die_ to protect him, and give up nearly everything to keep him safe. The kid with those damnable doe-eyes and that tremulous smile was his _son,_ or as good as, and Roy would give up anything, _everything_ if it meant he’d be okay.

But—

But he _missed_ Fullmetal. It probably wasn’t healthy of him to think of them as two different people (even if they _were,_ on some level, two very different people), but he couldn’t help it. He adored his kid, but he missed the wildfire brat of a boy that tore through his life and left his mark practically _everywhere._ The thought of never seeing him again made his chest twist, made him feel hollowed-out and empty. He loved his son, but missed him at the same time—how was that _possible?_ And how shitty an almost-sort-of-dad did that make him, that he wanted to see the person he’d been before?

 _I wouldn’t change him. Not for the world._ But if he could go back in time and spare Ed all of that pain, he would in a _heartbeat._

Roy sighed, finishing up the form and setting the pen down. He leaned back and closed his eyes again, exhaustion settling over him like a heavy blanket, before opening and glancing at the set of forms taunting him from that damnable manila folder. All it needed to go through was his signature, scrawled across the bottom like nearly everything else that crossed his desk, but—

_Adoption papers._

Fucking hell, he was really considering signing _adoption papers._ He was considering formally adopting the Elric brothers, making sure they’d always have somewhere to go or someone to go _to._ That they’d never feel like they couldn’t rely on anyone again. That they had people, that they had— _parents._ He was willing to become a _parent._

His pen hovered an inch above the paper—and he groaned, running his hands through his hair. _Oh, god._ He could do this, that wasn’t the issue. He could definitely do this. He could protect them, make sure the state couldn’t take them away for good. He could give them a home.

He could bring them _home._

 _But what if I fuck it all up?_ He buried his face in his hands. _What if I break them beyond repair? What if I hurt them more, what if I_ break _them, what if I ruin_ everything— He shuddered, eyeing the forms through tired, red-rimmed eyes.

He wasn’t one of their teachers. He wasn’t a parent or even someone who was _good_ with kids. His hands were soaked in blood and his lungs filled with ash from the ruins of a desert he’d burned away to dust. He didn’t _deserve_ them. _Them_ being kids in general, sure, but especially not _these kids._ They were good, so undeniably _good_ , kind and brave and strong in ways so few ever were, and they deserved so much better than Roy…even if they’d somehow attached themselves to him.

Riza more than him, he admitted dryly. The thought didn’t sting as much as he thought it might; instead, it made something warm fizz to life within him, golden and brilliant and _alive._ He’d heard Ed call Riza _“Mom”_ before he slipped out that morning. His steps had faltered ever-so-slightly as she responded to it, her voice tinged with that unconditional love and a little bit of awe.

He’d been—jealous, at first, and had hated himself for it. What right did he have to be jealous of _that,_ of two of the most important people in his life growing closer? It wasn’t like he wanted to be called Dad—did he? Did _deserve_ to? Definitely, _definitely_ not.

But Riza…well, Riza deserved it. Riza deserved to be needed, wanted, loved by someone who didn’t have to hide their feelings (however different in nature they were) and couldn’t even if they tried. And Riza _was_ Ed’s mother now in all the ways that counted—a protector, a friend, a source of comfort and support and encouragement. Someone who could be there in all the ways that Roy _couldn’t,_ who could protect them when Roy failed.

The jealousy was still there, but it wasn’t as overwhelming, wasn’t as _consuming_ as before. Thinking of them only brought him relief—an assurance that there would _always_ be someone looking out for Ed, no matter what. _And if Riza falls, Maes will take them. If he falls, then the Curtises. Then the Rockbells. Then Havoc, Breda, Fuery, Falman. Then Aunt Chris. Then Beckett. Then—well, maybe not Olivier, but Alex would be happy to take them._

Maybe that was part of this— _network_ he was building. A web to trap Ed’s captors, for sure, but also a safety net in case he or Riza failed them. An assurance that there were people looking out for them, and that Ed would be safe no matter what. He’d make sure of it no matter what sins he’d committed, no matter who he had to sell what was left of his soul. He would.

Only signing those damn papers, though, would give him complete control of that particular playing field. Only formally adopting those boys would remove them from the military’s reach for good.

_So why haven’t I done it?_

Roy let out a low growl of frustration. _It’s just a signature. One signature and they’re safe forever. One single scrawl and they’re yours. Two simple words—your own goddamn name—and Bradley can’t touch them._ His head thudded lightly against his desk as he slumped over. “So why the hell aren’t I signing?” he rasped to himself.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

He bolted upright, instantly poised to snap. His visitor laughed, holding up his hands placatingly. “Whoa there, Roy, it’s just me!”

He stared at the man, before scowling. “Hughes, how many times have I told you to _knock—”_

“Oh, I did,” his best friend said cheerfully. “Four times. You were distracted and the door was unlocked, so I let myself in and voila! Here I am.” He spread his arms, grinning widely. “Come on, you know you missed me!”

“I saw you two weeks ago,” Roy reminded him flatly. A smile was twitching at his mouth unwillingly, but he ignored it. The two of them knew their song and dance very well right now—he’d never admit a thing, but Hughes would _always_ know. Always.

“Yes, but I’ve got _so much_ to tell you!” He flung an arm around Roy’s shoulders. “C’mon, let’s do lunch. I’ve got so many pictures to show you, Elicia got a new stuffed animal and it’s just the cutest little thing!” He started rummaging through his coat and Roy groaned, dreading the can of worms that had just been opened. “She wants to know when her cousins are coming to visit, too,” he added, and Roy blinked in confusion.

“Cousins?”

“Ed and Al,” Hughes said, as if it should have been obvious. “Now, where do you want to eat? There’s a place with great Cretan food down the block, or so I’ve heard. Unless you’re in the mood for the usual bar fare? It’s on me this time, of course, I still owe you for letting us use your card for that post-meeting office party. How’s Ed doing, by the way? Your updates are ridiculously cryptic and I’m pretty sure Gracia’s itching to burst in and coddle the kid to bits—”

“Hughes—”

“She’s already baked like four batches of cookies and demanded that I take them to you. They’re in my suitcase—oh, and Elicia packaged them! She drew the boys such cute little pictures on the tags, isn’t she just _adorable._ I’m the luckiest man in the world, you know!”

“Hughes, I—”

“So, Cretan food or the usual? I could also go for Xingese—oh! My darling Elicia finally tried the dumplings from that little place near our apartment. I have pictures! I’ll show them to you during lunch, come on—”

“ _Hughes!”_ His friend’s ramblings finally died off, and the man raised one dark eyebrow, green eyes curious. “What…” Roy shook his head, the exasperation turning back into pure confusion. “What do you mean, cousins?”

“Well, you’re her Uncle Roy,” Hughes shrugged, though he had that _glint_ in his eye that said he knew _things._ That he was _thinking_ about these things, and _scheming,_ and anything Hughes started scheming about usually went terribly for Roy. Usually. “And they’re your sons. Hence, cousins.”

“They’re not my—”

Hughes’s other eyebrow joined its twin, giving a pointed look toward the desk where the adoption papers wait on the desk. Roy grimaced, scowling at him. “They’re _not,”_ he repeated sharply. “I haven’t signed them.”

“I know. Honestly, I’m still wondering why.” He tilted his head. “You’ve filled everything else out, you made sure their records were in order, that they’d have a stable place to go home to. What’s keeping you from signing it?”

Roy swallowed. And then, defeatedly—“I’m not you,” he admitted quietly, and he grimaced at the flash of understanding across his best friend’s face. _Don’t you dare go off on another tangent, Hughes._ “I don’t know what I’m doing. I—sure, it’s easy to comfort him, to be there for him, but I don’t know how to be a _father._ I don’t know how to keep him safe without hurting him in the process and it all comes so _naturally_ to you that I—I don’t know. Maybe I can’t sign it knowing he’d be better off with someone else.”

Hughes blinked. “Is that it?”

“What—what do you mean, _is that it?_ I don’t know what I’m doing, Hughes!”

He snorted. “And you think I do? You think _anyone_ does?”

No. That wasn’t possible. Maes Hughes was _the_ quintessential father. The man was simply the epitome of the term fatherhood. He literally _oozed_ adoration for his family and his daughter worshipped the ground he walked on. He _had_ to know, because if he didn’t, well…no one did.

_No one did._

“Roy.” He jerked his head up as Hughes set his hands on his shoulders. “Do you care about those kids?”

“Of course.” So much it _hurt,_ sometimes. It was a truly terrifying sensation.

“Are you gonna keep them safe?”

He didn’t hesitate as he answered, “With my life.”

“Well, then, you’ve already got the most important part of fatherhood down.”

At Roy’s quizzical glance, Hughes grinned, full of pride and warmth and a truly shocking amount of faith in him. There was none of the usual deviousness or blind joy on his face—just raw, open honesty. His friend, the quintessential father, believed he could do this. “Being there.”

 _Being there._ Being there for two boys who fought so hard and sacrificed so much. For two boys who needed someone to fight for them sometimes, to be there when no one else would—or _could._ For Ed, both the shy waifish thing he was now and the brash would-be soldier he’d been before. For Al, the boy whose kindness hid so much pain and so much protectiveness that he gladly made himself a shield for the people he loved. That…that, he could do. That, he _would_ do.

Roy hesitated only a moment longer, before striding over to his desk and scrawling his name on the dotted line. Some pressing anxiety on his shoulders dissolved at the sight of it, of that signature.

They were safe. His boys were safe.

“Now,” he said to Hughes, heading for the door, “I believe you said something about lunch?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed that chapter! Sorry about posting it later in the day; today was my first day of senior year and it was capital-H Hectic. Next week will be a bunch of family fluff as I stealthily move the characters into the holiday season. Christmas in September! Or maybe October!
> 
> Also, if you haven't already read it, I recently finished my longest work EVER--an FMA Six of Crows AU starring Ling Yao as Kaz Brekker and Lan Fan as the Wraith. If you like Six of Crows, you'll definitely like this--though you don't need to know it to read it! Please check it out if you're interested. Here's the link: [no mourners, no funerals](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18838660/chapters/44706988)
> 
> As always, leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed it, and I'll see you next week!


	33. when you're feeling lost i'll leave my love hidden in the sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The walk was slow-going, Ed drifting quietly from attraction to attraction, drawn in by Christmas lights and bare branches, holly hedges and bright berries. He seemed oddly unaware of his surroundings, sometimes turning to beam up at them when he saw something he seemed to like but mostly wandering contently, perfectly happy to be led around. It contrasted so strongly with the brash, independent Ed she knew that for a second she could almost _see_ him, the slightly taller, broad-shouldered boy standing beside the quiet, waifish creature that pulled shyly on her sleeve and pointed at a pine someone had hung ornaments on.
> 
> She blinked, and the ghost of who he'd used to be vanished, leaving only the sweet, gentle boy that had been left behind. Gone like a puff of cold breath in the December air, whisked away like a faraway phantom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [When The Darkness Comes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sjhvSRe-pZE) by Colbie Caillat 
> 
> This chapter includes an OC! Plus, we're moving into the holiday season in the fic's timeline, so we get Ed gushing over Christmas lights, more Riza introspection. The OC is supposed to be Aerugoan, which I'm like 60% sure was based off of France, and...well, it's an excuse for me to have French in this story. Enjoy!

To say that Riza was somewhat anxious about Ed leaving the house was…well, an understatement. A very, _very_ big understatement, given how frightened he still was of everyone and everything. The roof was a different story—it was closed off, fenced in so people couldn’t fall off, and there was never a crowd up there unless some of the other tenants got a little party going or something. But going out into the city again…maybe she was being paranoid, or overprotective, but there were so many variables that could go wrong that she couldn’t keep him safe from.

Yet here they were, stepping out on a walk for the first time since Ed had gotten home from the hospital. To her surprise, he seemed almost _excited,_ bouncing on his toes as much as he dared (convincing him that it was okay to be _loud_ , to _move_ , to take up space was an ongoing battle, but they were making a little bit of headway) and clinging to Roy’s sleeve. She could guess why—Roy had been gone all week, working to make up for the time he’d lost in the office, and while Ed understood why, that didn’t mean he _liked_ it. On the rare occasions that he was awake for his farewell, he’d latch onto his hand and bury his face in his side, and he had to be dragged away from the couch every night so he could get a decent amount of sleep despite Roy not being home yet.

Ed missed Colonel Roy Mustang. The thought would’ve seemed ludicrous a year ago—but then again, all of this would’ve seemed ludicrous a year ago. Now, it made perfect sense: Roy had been his primary caretaker when he’d first been rescued, had provided his undivided attention to him readily, had shown him affection and kindness when he’d been re-trained to only expect pain. Of course he missed him. Of course he was scared to lose him. Of course he was clingy when he was home, and desperately attached to him. It would be adorable if it wasn’t so sad.

_It’s still a little adorable anyways,_ a traitorous voice whispered, and she squashed it quickly, watching fondly as Roy looped that bright-red scarf around Ed’s neck and pulled up the hood of his coat. Ed’s eyes brightened, staring up at him adoringly as he latched onto his hand, before shyly extending his other hand to her. She took it without hesitation, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, watching warmly as he hesitantly edged out the door before beaming up at her, eyes wide and hopeful.

_Good. He’s happy._ He’d probably be even more excited when he learned they were going to that little ice cream place they took him to the first time around. Ed couldn’t eat much, even with the medicine; his appetite was tiny and his ability to keep things down was a little better than at the hospital, but not much. He couldn’t manage much more than broth and bread and the rare sweet, but Roy had suggested it as a sort of “secret-adoption -present” thing, and, well…she knew he just _really_ deserved something good after so much pain.

Ed drifted toward Roy as they started down the street toward the ice cream parlor. She didn’t begrudge him for it in the slightest, tucking her hands in her pockets and enjoying the brisk, cold air. Too chilly for ice cream usually, but Ed’s sensitivity to heat meant hot drinks on his tongue could be a source of panic, and she wanted him to have _fun_ today. He deserved to feel something good for once, to feel _safe._

She busied herself with watching these two people who mattered so much to her, fondness and warmth chasing away the wintery chill. Holiday decorations draped the storefronts they passed, fairy lights wound around the branches of the trees planted in the sidewalks, and Ed’s eyes lit up with delight when they passed them. Her lips quirked up slightly as Roy grinned down at him, that warmth—that _love_ pulsing in her chest as she watched the two of them. _Christmas is in a couple weeks,_ she recalled, squeezing Ed’s hand again as he stopped to stare up at a wreath with shining eyes, as if he’d forgotten about the holidays entirely. _We’ll have to do something nice for him._

The walk was slow-going, Ed drifting quietly from attraction to attraction, drawn in by Christmas lights and bare branches, holly hedges and bright berries. He seemed oddly unaware of his surroundings, sometimes turning to beam up at them when he saw something he seemed to like but mostly wandering contently, perfectly happy to be led around. It contrasted so strongly with the brash, independent Ed she knew that for a second she could almost _see_ him, the slightly taller, broad-shouldered boy standing beside the quiet, waifish creature that pulled shyly on her sleeve and pointed at a pine someone had hung ornaments on.

She blinked, and the ghost of who he’d used to be vanished, leaving only the sweet, gentle boy that had been left behind. Gone like a puff of cold breath in the December air, whisked away like a faraway phantom.

She wished, for a moment, that it hadn’t—that she could see that ghost, apologize to it, tell it that it was loved and missed. There was so much she wanted to tell the boy he’d been before, the boy who’d never dream of calling her “Mom”, who fought and clawed and snarled for a single chance to save his brother. So much she’d never get to, because that boy was as dead as every other corpse she’d walked over, every other body that had fallen in her path. So much he deserved to hear, so much she hadn’t realized he’d needed or wanted or felt, so much she’d never get a chance to say.

But this Ed, in front of her—this one _needed_ her. This one needed people he trusted who _loved_ him, who’d protect him, who were willing to fight for him. This one needed everything she hadn’t been able to give the person he’d been before, and she’d be damned if she let him down.

He was her _kid,_ after all. Her precious, wonderful boy, who loved drawing and clung to people when he got scared and liked being read to (even if he always turned pink with embarrassment when he admitted it), who jumped at shadows and was slowly learning that it was okay to want things for himself, to care about his own well-being. He was _hers,_ her son, and—well, the very idea of unconditional love had always terrified her. To love that fiercely, that completely…she’d only felt it once before, and their situations made it entirely impossible. But now she had it three times over—one being that same love she’d been trying to box away for fifteen years, and the other two being the two brothers that had crashed headfirst into her life.

And she’d be damned if she was going to let them down.

“M-Mom.”

She jolted at the word, at the small, gloved hand suddenly wrapped tightly around hers. Roy winked at her from where he stood behind Ed, whose other hand soon joined the first. They’d arrived at the ice cream parlor while she’d been lost in thought, and Ed—Ed looked absolutely captivated, his golden eyes shining with delight as he pointed to the awning. “L-look!” he squeaked, tugging on her sleeve excitedly.

She followed his gaze—and a smile spread across her face, her heart melting into a puddle of ridiculously affectionate _goo._ Ed’s mesmerized by the string of lights strung across it, his eyes practically glowing as the bulbs flickered from gold to white to red to blue. _Color-changing lights, huh?_ Of course he’d be captivated by those; he loved the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling. The concept of lights that changed colors was such a simple one, but yet he looked entirely, adorably entranced by the sight of them against the pale green awning. “Do you want to get some for the holidays?”

His eyes brightened, shining with hope. “C-can we?”

She met Roy’s eyes—it was _his_ house, after all—and relaxed minutely when he chuckled. “Of course, kiddo,” he said fondly, and Ed squeaked shyly as a broad hand ruffled his hair, turning to beam up at him. “I mean, we have to get a tree, don’t we? Which means decorations. I’m pretty sure we can work out some color-changing lights.”

His eyes widened even more, and her heart broke at the expression of surprise and heartbreaking hope on his face as he repeated, “T-tree?”

“Yeah, a Christmas tree. My foster mom used to put one up in the bar every year.” Riza blinked at that—she’d met Chris Mustang, a woman so bold and fearless that even she was in awe of her, but Roy didn’t talk about his family much. Most of what she learned, she’d learned in Ishval. She knew now that he didn’t want the higher-ups to use her and his sisters against him, but he’d never told Ed much, either. Judging by his curious expression, Ed was just as intrigued. “I mean, we came from all over the place, so we celebrated a bunch of different holidays, but we always had a tree.” He grinned sheepishly. “Every year, we picked a name out of a hat to see who would put the star on top. I didn’t realize they were rigging it in my favor ‘til I was sixteen.”

Riza had to chuckle at that mental image—the wild-eyed, well-mannered, gangly boy she remembered from her youth taking his duties to the tree’s star so seriously, the sharp-eyed, brusque Chris and his clever, charismatic sisters painstakingly plotting out how to tip the odds toward their youngest member’s favor. Ed tilted his head curiously, looking puzzled. “Y-your…mom?”

Roy hummed thoughtfully. “Yeah, I never told you about her, did I? She owns a bar in Central. One of the bravest, kindest people I’ve ever met. She took me in after my parents died without a second thought, treated me like her own.” He chuckled softly, dark eyes gleaming with nostalgia. “She’s the toughest person in the world, but if she’s with you, she’s with you through every little thing. I’ll have to take you to meet her sometime.”

Riza watched as the boy between them gazed curiously up at him—and thought her heart might burst with a strange, unfamiliar _joy_ when Ed leaned against Roy’s side and whispered, “I’d l-like that.”

It was a weird feeling, that joy. It wasn’t like the realization of the love she held for the two brothers, or the ever-growing sense that her childish crush hadn’t gone away at all. It was slow, and bubbling—not _bright,_ not fierce and overwhelming or cold as the ice of her fury, but deep and rich as molasses. Her steps slowed, watching Ed trail ahead of her, his eyes bright for once as he babbled happily to a laughing Roy.

Family. That’s what this had somehow become. _Family._

Family had never been— _easy._ Not for her, at least, though she doubted it was for anyone. Even if her father _had_ been alive, she’d never take the boys to meet him, especially not with Ed in this state. Berthold Hawkeye was one of those people whose touch became poison, his good intentions into strange obsessions. He’d been consumed by his own alchemy, had _engraved his goddamn notes_ on her _back,_ like she was another one of his precious notebooks.

He’d etched more than ink and alchemy into her, though. He’d etched the belief that his poison, his flaws were hers to bear into her very bones. He’d made her fear that she’d end up like him, dying cold and alone on an estate that meant nothing, that she’d make the same mistakes he made.

But…she hadn’t. She’d made mistakes, and she was culpable for atrocities she’d never be clean of, but those mistakes were ones she’d never make. Not to the boy who turned toward her now, beaming, his cheeks pink from the cold. Not to the boy who hurried back and forth from the library all day, forever searching for the smallest of ways to help his big brother. Not to whoever came after, if anyone did at all.

This was her family, however unconventional, and she was slowly unlearning the poison her father burned into her.

“Mom!”

She blinked, coming back to herself with a sharp breath as Ed tilted his head up at her, his eyes worried. “A-are y-you okay?” Beside him, Roy’s eyes were sharp with concern.

She…was starting to be. Somehow.

“Always, _malo sveta.”_ She squeezed his hand. “Now, I believe we promised you ice cream, didn’t we?”

The worry didn’t vanish from his face, but he smiled up at her, shockingly innocent and shockingly sweet. “W-wha’ f-flavor?”

“Mm…depends what they have this season.”

They made their way into the ice cream parlor, a small place with a friendly, homey feel to it that Roy had introduced her to when they were planning out that first walk. The tables and chairs were painted pink, the walls a cheery pale green, and everything was trimmed in white and rose. The owner, an Aerugoan man with a shock of red hair and an infectious grin, called everyone _cher_ or _cherie,_ and upon seeing Ed, had immediately given him chocolate sprinkles on his cup of strawberry ice cream and told him it was on the house.

Maxime Corvent beamed at them as they entered, his blue eyes bright and cheery. “ _De retour?”_ he drawled. “Not that you’re not my _favorite_ customers, of course.”

Roy snorted. Riza shook her head, amused. _“Oui, nous sommes retour._ Though we can always take our business elsewhere, Maxime.”

“Hey, I’m not complaining! If you did, I wouldn’t get to see this little badass anymore.” He held out his hand for a fist-bump, and Ed shyly returned it, looking up at him from beneath his bangs. “And here’s my little lion! What can I get you this time? We’ve got candy cane now, and chocolate-mint-cookie. Made fresh this morning,” he added with a wink. “And crushed cookie-crumbs are among the new holiday toppings!”

“Nothing too rich, I’m afraid,” Riza said dryly. “He just got back from the hospital a little while ago. We’re taking it easy on the sweets for now, but _Roy—”_

“Oh, come on, I’m not _that_ much of a pushover!”

“He hit you with those puppy eyes and you were down for the count,” she deadpanned, grinning slightly as Ed giggled.

 Maxime chuckled, his laugh low and rumbling like the earth, though he sobered after a moment. “Yes, I read the article when it came out. Better than I hoped, but it seems the results were _une catastrophe,_ hmm?” He tapped his chin thoughtfully, before brightening. “I have just the thing!”

Riza watched him as he bustled off to the tubs of ice cream, grimacing. _Une catastrophe_ was certainly one way to describe it. Granted, Ed’s reaction hadn’t been to the article as much as to having his picture taken, but the poor kid hadn’t had much luck with either. From what Breda had been telling her, public opinion was in his favor, but she knew how fickle they could be. If he never returned to service, there would be people calling him weak. If he did, there would be people calling him unfit. It was a trap.

It was a trap, she decided, watching the shy, sweet boy Ed had become as he stood on his tiptoes to see what Maxime was doing, that she’d protect him from. It was one she’d fallen into and risen out of, stronger than before, and it was one Roy still slogged through every day, letting himself be the target for the public eye to protect the rest of them, and she _would not let it hurt him._ No matter the cost.

Maxime returned with a pink milkshake, topped with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles. “ _Voila!_ Someone’s favorite—liquefied.” He handed it over to an awestruck Ed, who clutched the tall, sugary drink like he thought it might disappear. He went back to the tubs of ice cream, before returning with a cup of mocha-chip and one of vanilla-fudge-swirl—her usual, and Roy’s. “On the house,” he added sternly to Roy, who’d begun fishing out his wallet.

Roy blinked, eyes widening. It would’ve looked comical if Riza hadn’t been doing the same thing. “Maxime, I can’t—”

_“Au contraire._ I insist.” He pushed the cups toward them, crossing his arms. His gaze drifted to Ed. “You can pay me back by keeping that little one safe. A lot of people are rooting for him, you know. More than you can imagine. I’m not the only one who you’ll find offering a little holiday generosity.”

Riza blinked—and then he was smiling again, sticking spoons into the cups and setting them in their hands. “Thank you for coming to _Maximum Sweets!_ Please, come again soon!” He gestured for them to _shoo_ as a couple slipped inside, faces red from the cold and laughing as they ducked in.

_Keep him safe, huh?_

They glanced at each other, and shrugged, following their son out into the sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys liked this chapter! Next one will have some Black Hayate, yay! Best doggo will finally get to hang around with best kiddo~ If you enjoyed this chapter, please leave a comment and/or a kudos, and I'l see you next Tuesday! Thanks for reading!


	34. how a single word can make a heart open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed knew now. Ed knew how badly fangs could hurt when they sank into his flesh, how the feeling of scales could make his skin crawl until he scratched it to pieces trying to erase the feeling. He knew how they could trick  him, knew about tiny poisonous frogs They let into the cell, ones that made him scream and writhe with pain (ones that he cried over when they took them away, because it _hurt_ but they were the only colors he’d seen besides red and rust in _months)._ He knew that animals were just as capable of smiling to your face and stabbing you in the back as people, that they were foes wearing friendly faces, that _all_ of them would hurt him given the chance. They’d taught him that much, at least.
> 
> They’d taught him a lot more than that, if he was being honest. Some things were less true than others, but—but They were _right_ about this, and about him, and about—about a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Fight Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e8qDOGLCSFo) by Rachel Plattern (I got to see her open for Pentatonix in June! So cool). Now, onto...ed and dogs, I suppose.

Ed used to like animals.

He remembered that much from Before, however faintly (and however small and stupid and _useless_ a memory it was). He still loved Den, of course, the sweet, gentle dog that rested her head in his lap whenever he was upset, even Before. Al’s love of cats hadn’t dimmed at all, so he put up with the hints he kept dropping to Roy and Riza about getting a kitten, even though the thought of having a pet so close made him quiver, made him want to claw at his skin before They could.

 He _loved_ animals, before all this. He _trusted_ them. Before-Ed would never have been hurt by an animal because—because he liked them, and they liked him right back, and he didn’t know how scary they could be. He didn’t—he didn’t _know._

But Ed knew now. Ed knew how badly fangs could hurt when they sank into his flesh, how the feeling of scales could make his skin crawl until he scratched it to pieces trying to erase the feeling. He knew how they could trick  him, knew about tiny poisonous frogs They let into the cell, ones that made him scream and writhe with pain (ones that he cried over when they took them away, because it _hurt_ but they were the only colors he’d seen besides red and rust in _months)._ He knew that animals were just as capable of smiling to your face and stabbing you in the back as people, that they were foes wearing friendly faces, that _all_ of them would hurt him given the chance. They’d taught him that much, at least.

They’d taught him a lot more than that, if he was being honest. Some things were less true than others, but—but They were _right_ about this, and about him, and about—about a lot.

_But not Al. Not Roy. Not Riza._ But the rest…the rest had to be at least a little true, right? Otherwise everything They’d done, everything They’d tried to do was for—for nothing. Otherwise, They’d done it all just because They could and he was there and—

_Not…not possible._

He shuddered, peeking over his knees at Hayate. Animals were _scary,_ and Ed—Ed still liked _thinking_ about them. He liked the _idea_ of them. He had curtains with duck patterns, after all, and _Ree,_ of course, though she didn’t really count. She was a stuffed animal, after all, and a mythical beast at that. Dragons didn’t exactly count as animals, did they?

When it came to the actual thing—well, when it came to the actual thing, he couldn’t—couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t ground himself enough not to feel scared, couldn’t keep himself from bolting, from crying, from clinging to whoever was nearby—which was how he found himself perched on the arm of the leather couch and hugging his legs to his chest, staring down at the puppy Riza had adopted before he was taken. Big black eyes blinked up at him, a tail wagging as Hayate yipped curiously.

_Why did it have to be today?_ he thought miserably, pressing Ree tightly to his chest. The soft, plush horn slipped into his mouth, and he suckled on it, tears gliding down his cheeks and staining her blue fur a darker shade. _Why—_

He shuddered, curling his small body up as small as he could (face hidden vitals protected _safesafesafe)_ as the dog sat before him, tail thumping lightly on the ground. He didn’t _look_ as scary as his mind made him out to be, but it didn’t stop his mind from wandering. It didn’t keep him from feeling small and cold and broken when the dog blinked solemnly at him.

It didn’t keep him from wishing Roy was here right now. From wishing that his dad was here to protect him, that Riza had been able to leave Hayate at home again today, that _anything_ could’ve been done to make him stop feeling so alone and afraid. To make him stop seeing a mangy, monstrous feral _beast_ where a small puppy was supposed to be.

_Luck,_ said the tiny whispers of logic swirling amidst the fear overwhelming every single sense. _It’s just bad luck, that’s all. They’re not here. There’s no snakes, no poison, no one to hurt you. It’s just bad luck that Riza had to bring Hayate with her today. She didn’t know you were scared of him. You didn’t tell anyone, and they didn’t know, and you had a bad dream, and that’s just making everything extra scary. Bad luck. Bad luck and circumstance._

And it was, really. It was just bad luck that a rash of pet-nappings had broken out around Riza’s neighborhood, forcing her to bring Black Hayate with her today. She couldn’t have known that They used animals—or recordings of animals, when They plunged him into the pitch-black and unleashed nightmares and whispers and voices to torment him. She’d seen him playing with Den when they went back to get him a new arm, so maybe she’d figured that animals weren’t something that scared him. It was a logical conclusion.

Ed didn’t know why he was scared of Hayate and not Den. Maybe it was because he’d grown up with her, because she’d been around as long as he could remember—since a little after Mom died. She was an old dog, but strong and brave and good. Granny said she’d outlast all of them, but coming back to that warm yellow house and seeing her there, tail wagging and pink tongue hanging out of her mouth, was the first time he’d really _felt_ it.

Den didn’t judge. Den _couldn’t_ judge. She knew when he was sad or scared or upset, but she didn’t jump and bark and bite like the ones They used did. She didn’t mind if he cried or if he needed to hide from everybody else. She was just _there._

Other animals—other animals weren’t like that. Other animals were _scary,_ loud and overeager and _terrifying,_ with claws and fangs and poison and rot and he just—he didn’t _like_ them.

Hayate wasn’t even a scary dog, he thought in frustration, pressing himself back against the side of the couch. Hayate was sweet and friendly and hadn’t even barked when Riza had brought him in the house, already murmuring apologies.  And he still felt scared out of his mind, his heart pounding and phantom claws sinking into his skin, Their laughter echoing in his mind.

His eyes filled with tears and he wound his fingers into his bangs, pulling tightly against the whispers. _Weak dumb worthless—_

“Ed?”

He jerked back at the voice— _Al Al Al brotherbrotherbrother save me—_ and reached up with a gasp as he wobbled unsteadily. All he saw before he toppled over were a pair of panicked red eyes, leather gauntlets—and then he overbalanced. And tipped off the edge of the couch entirely.

He didn’t feel—didn’t feel _pain,_ he realized dimly, limp against the ground as Al’s face swam into view, his brother fretting over him. It didn’t _hurt._ He just felt…weird. Dizzy, and his stomach felt so tight ( _hungry hungry hungry not eating enough can’t eat anymore it hurtshurtshurts),_ and he was trembling from the impact, but it didn’t _hurt._ The scars on his back weren’t tingling, and everything was fine—

And then the shock cleared. The pain set in, a dull, hollow ache that he couldn’t escape no matter ho hard he tried, trembling and squirming desperately, batting at Al’s hands in terror. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he curled into a ball with a whine, every inch of his body aching—and from such a _tiny fall_ , too.

_Before-Ed wouldn’t be crying over this,_ he thought, and the realization made him cry harder even as a babbling Al quickly pulled him into his lap, whispering and cooing and trying desperately to calm him ( _you’re being such a baby, stop scaring him, hatethishatethishateme). Before-Ed wouldn’t be hiding from a dog Before-Ed wouldn’t have fallen in the first place They were wrong and Before-Ed is good but you’re not you’re not you’re_ not.

“Brother—brother, it’s okay, it’s—” Al gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, and Ed knew it was supposed to be comforting, but he nearly shrieked at the touch, shuddering all over. _Where’s Mama want Mama pleasepleaseplease I’m sorrysorrysorry—please, I’m_ sorry. He’d been Bad, he’d been Bad he’d been Bad _he’d been Bad badbadbadbadbad I’m sorry I’m sorry m’sorry!_ “W-where does it hurt? Wh—” He heard a faint screech of metal and flinched, hands coming up to cover his ears as a sob escaped.

He felt Al tremble against him, and flinched as he called out, _“RIZA!”_

_No—nonono I’m sorry m’sorrysorrysorry I can be good I can be good I can be—_ He shook harder at the sound of footsteps, thudding steadily on the floor. _S’just Riza, s’just Mama stop bein’ scared stop bein’—you’re such a_ baby, _worthless stupid less than dirt—_

Something wet lapped at his face, and his eyes flew open, shock momentarily overwhelming his terror as black eyes blinked curiously at him, two small paws propped on his thighs. A tail _whap-whap-whapped_ back and forth, occasionally thumping against Al’s armor as Hayate tilted his head, giving him an inquisitive look before yipping. He stared at the pup with wide eyes, forcing himself to pull his fingers out of his mouth with a whimper as Riza made her way into his (very blurred) view, kneeling before him. “ _Down,_ Hayate,” she said firmly—and Ed sobbed with relief as she pulled him into her arms, Hayate bounding off of him and circling Al with an apologetic whine. “Al, what happened?”

“Brother was sitting on the—the arm of the couch, and I think he was trying to get away from Hayate, but I don’t—” Ed buried his face in her shoulder, clinging to her shirt with a wail. _Being stupid being stupid being stupid sorrysorrysorry._ Al wrung his hands nervously—he couldn’t see it, but he could hear the soft hiss of leather on metal. It pushed through the roaring feeling of fear in his chest, the sound half-calming the wildfire buzz of terror humming in his brain his chest, his _everything. Al’s here Al’s here Al’s here safesafesafe?_ “I came in ‘cause I was gonna see if he wanted me to read to him, and I—he—I startled him, and he fell off the couch and I think he hurt himself but I d-don’t _k-know—”_

“It’s okay,” Riza soothed, and even though she wasn’t talking to him, he felt a little bit _better—_ a little bit safer, calmer, more _secure. Mom says it’s okay. Mama says it’s gonna be okay, and it will be. It will be, ‘cause she says it’ll be and she’s not leaving she’s not she’s not._ “You didn’t mean to scare him, Al. This is my fault for bringing Hayate here. I should’ve taken him as soon as I saw how scared Ed was, but I didn’t. This is on me.”

He whimpered at that and clung to her, tightening his fingers in her shirt desperately. “N-no g-goin’,” he begged, managing to lift his face enough to blink up at her. Amber eyes gazed down at him, worried and warm and _real,_ eyes that he’d never seen in the cell. Eyes that would never _be_ in the cell, because Riza—Riza was _good._ Riza didn’t belong in the cell, and even if he was dragged back, he’d never wish for her to be there. Never.

Which meant…

Which meant he wasn’t in the cell. Which meant he really was safe, in Mama’s arms, with Al hovering next to him and fretting and worrying and being the kind, gentle brother he remembered from Before. Which meant that he was in the apartment, his beloved (if childish—really, _really_ childish, he thought with a spark of shame and another rush of tears) room with its star-covered ceiling and duck-patterned curtains and wine-red bedspread just down the hall, the safe haven of Da—Roy’s room just beyond it. Which meant that his notebooks were here, too, filled with the drawings he was working on for Mama and Al and Teacher.

Which meant that he was maybe—just maybe—getting closer to _okay._

And if he was safely out of the cell, in Riza’s arms with Al beside him, that meant—that meant that the dog trotting in restless (protective?) circles around them wasn’t one of the vicious ones They’d snatched off the street and taught to hurt him. That meant that it really was _Black Hayate,_ the duti—dutifu— _serious_ little dog that Fuery had rescued and Riza adopted.

Hayate…Hayate wouldn’t hurt him, right? Riza had trained him, after all, and Riza was Mama and she was _good._ She trusted Hayate around him, so—so maybe he should try to trust the dog, too. He didn’t _look_ scary—in fact, he looked a little like Den with his black-and-white fur and the bandana-collar around his neck. He blinked, imagining Den and Hayate playing (or, more likely, Hayate trying to get Den to play while she grumped about), and giggled wetly against Riza’s shoulder, surprising _himself_ a little.

Maybe not—not other dogs. Or cats. Or animals. But Hayate was Riza’s and he trusted her with his life (with _Al’s_ life, which meant so much more than his own), and maybe…maybe he could start with this. With this one tiny, tiny step.

“M-Mama?” He cringed; he already called her Mom, but—but _Mama_ was so much more _childish,_ it was _stupid_ ( _just like you, just like you, just like youyouyou)_ and what if she got mad what if this was all for nothing what if he messed up _whatifwhatifwhatif—_

“Yes, _malo sveta?”_ A strong hand carded through his hair, and he trembled at the touch, the tears filling his eyes now ones of relief. _Loves you loves you doesn’t hate you._ He let that gentle hand tilt his chin up, blinking up at her familiar face—blonde hair (loose today; it looked nice when it was down, lighter than his, but _prettier,_ like that bubbly golden drink that was always served at fancy parties instead of his pure gold), amber eyes (like whiskey; he remembered what that was called, at least), and that small, soft smile that never failed to make him feel safe. “What is it?”

He reached a timid hand toward where Hayate was pacing and whining quietly, his hand trembling a little bit. “C-can—can I—” He swallowed thickly as the dog paused and tilted its head, yapping inquisitively. “Can I—” _Stupid words, stupid stupid stupid!_

Understanding flashed in amber eyes, and Riza’s hand moved from his face to beckon the dog. “Come, Hayate,” she ordered softly, and the dog padded open obediently, just within reach. Ed stared at it, nestling further into Riza’s lap with a whimper, forcing himself to keep his hand held out. _It’s just Hayate. Just Hayate. Just Hayate._

A cold, wet nose bumped against his fingers, and he jolted before staring as the puppy lapped at his hand with a cheerful bark. “Hayate!” Riza scolded above him, but Ed could only gaze at the dog with wide eyes before hesitantly reaching to scratch it behind its soft ears.

He was…he was touching a dog. And he was _safe._ He was moving forward, just a little, but it was starting to be—starting to be _enough._ He was learning to read again, and he’d started to remember how to write, and he’d learned to draw and he was talking a little better, feeling a little less scared. He was getting _better._ He was _healing,_ and he was facing one of his fears, and he was…he was starting to be okay. He was becoming _real_ again.

_They can’t touch me here._

And for the first time since the phone booth, Ed fully, wholeheartedly believed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all! Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Poor Ed hasn't gotten over his fear all in one go, of course, but he's getting better and he's finally starting to _see_ that. 
> 
> Now, onto slightly more serious business: After the next chapter, I will be taking a brief hiatus. When I say brief, I mean brief, don't worry! I intend to return on the second or third Tuesday of October. I've just got a lot going on now between college applications and school and the upcoming ACT, and trying to pre-write enough chapters to feel secure is causing me a lot of undue stress. I need to replenish my "chapter buffer" as well, so hopefully this will give me enough time to get the creative juices going. I will still be updating my HTTYD AU, since that one doesn't have a set schedule (and I've got a doozy of an update for you guys~). I hope you guys understand, and I promise to be back soon.
> 
> On a lighter note, I'll be starting a collection of one-shots and deleted scenes from this AU! So please do keep an eye out for that. If you have any ideas for cute (or sad) moments, shout 'em out or message "definitely mads#4809".
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! Please leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed it, and I'll see you next week for my final update before the hiatus! Stay frosty, y'all.


	35. you are what you were and you've been and you'll always be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thought, quite unexpectedly, brought a smile to his lips. Soft probably wasn't the right word for it. He was as dangerous and sharp as ever, even if his overarching goal was on hold temporarily until he worked out what to do with the whole... _everything._ But a year ago, he wouldn't have dreamed of trying to figure out a surprise party for _anyone—_ well, maybe Elicia, but the idea definitely wouldn't have come from him, and he wouldn't be trying to orchestrate the entire thing while _at work._ He definitely wouldn't be this unfocused (though planning a Christmas... _thing_ for the kid that was pretty much half-Riza's already was an _excellent_ excuse to get out of paperwork). And he'd consider the very idea of taking care of someone like he took care of Ed now ridiculous--especially _for_ Ed. The Ed from a year ago was ridiculously self-sufficient and prideful. It'd be an insult to both of them.
> 
> But now...well, it might do well for the person who spent so much time afraid of being hated to see just how much people cared for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roy being Roy, Team Mustang being Team Mustang, and a secret surprise at the end! Sounds like a good note to end on, right? Oh, and a sneaky young royai flashback!
> 
> [Unbreakable](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6JOTF5m9C7o) by Janelle Monae and Kelly Clarkson

The thing about Ed was that despite what he believed, he wasn’t _stupid,_ and hiding things from him was still nearly _impossible._ Roy knew that he _considered_ himself an idiot, that _he_ thought he was stupid, but he knew literacy wasn’t all that determined intelligence. It was a sign of being well- _educated_ , sure, and it was vital to the pursuit of knowledge, but it wasn’t a universal sign of brilliance. People lived entire lives without learning how to read, and though as a bibliophile it seemed like a curse, he could appreciate that it was possible to live a full life even without the written word.

Ed, though…Ed had relied so much on reading that without it, his confidence was utterly shot. But that was just the thing: it was his _confidence_ that was the main issue. He was slowly, steadily recovering his ability to read, bit by infinitesimal bit, but even without it, he was one of the smartest people Roy had ever met. He was scared, yes, wracked by demons and nightmares and scars both mental and physical, timid and anxious and in overwhelming need of comfort, but an _idiot_? Impossible. No matter what Ed went through, no matter what was done to him, how much he shattered, _stupid_ would never be a word Roy used to describe his…son.

His _son_. His actual, literal _son,_ legally and emotionally and every way but biologically. Ed was his son now, and Roy…well, Roy was elated and terrified, trapped somewhere between euphoria, hope, and the deepest fear he’d felt since Ishval. He’d never trusted himself around kids, and now he had two of most damaged people he’d ever met under his care, and he was slowly trying to figure out how to give them what they needed.

…And he was also trying to figure out how to properly wrap adoption papers without damaging them, or the wrapping paper, or ruining the bows—or getting caught by his overly inquisitive eldest. Roy could tell he was suspicious of the new burst of holiday cheer, specifically the fact that he and Riza were making such a big deal out of them.

It didn’t seem, of course, that Ed remotely disliked the holidays. In fact, he seemed delighted by them in a way that Fullmetal never had been, infected by the spirit of joy and generosity sweeping the city and entranced by every little thing. Christmas lights? He’d stare at them for hours, mesmerized by the glowing embers dangling from bare branches. Holiday themed drinks? He couldn’t handle anything overly rich or sweet, but he’d stare up at him or Riza until they relented and bought one and let him sip at it until that tiny furrow in his brow that meant _too much at once_ appeared. Carols and holiday tales? He’d listen to them with an expression of childlike wonder, Ree clutched to his chest and eyes round with curiosity and amazement. Edward Elric genuinely adored the holidays in all their ridiculous glory, and Roy…Roy was determined to make them something _good_ for him, even if he hadn’t celebrated them much since he found his purpose.

Hence the surprise party he was kind-of-sort-of-maybe taking the lead on. Just a bit. You know, for posterity’s sake or…something.

He cracked a rueful smile, staring ruefully at the pile of presents he and Riza had slowly accumulated from both themselves, the handful of invitees (people Ed knew, of course, those he loved and trusted, people he _wouldn’t_ be scared by), and a few others who knew about the situation. Al, of course, wasn’t in on this part of the plan; about half of the presents were for him, after all, and what kind of accidental-dad would Roy be if he let his kid wrap his own presents? No, this holiday was going to be as much Al’s as it was Ed’s, even if the younger Elric didn’t think he needed it. It was odd, how the brothers had…switched, on some level—Ed, the shy, gentle one, and Al, the stubborn one who’d fight just about anyone for his big brother.

Maybe they’d always been like this on some level—not as drastically as they’d changed _now,_ but this probably didn’t come out of nowhere. Maybe he just couldn’t see Ed’s gentleness and Al’s stubbornness beneath the images they projected. _The things you learn when you’re living with someone, huh?_ he mused, setting aside an intricate carving of a flamel ( _Havoc’s work,_ Falman had informed him. _After the brothers’ teacher arrived and he learned what school of alchemy they followed—and that schools of alchemy were, in his words, a “thing”—he spent weeks working on two of them). Or adopted them, I guess._ He was still reeling from _that_ decision.

_God, I really have gone soft, haven’t I?_

The thought, quite unexpectedly, brought a smile to his lips. Soft probably wasn’t the right word for it. He was as dangerous and sharp as ever, even if his overarching goal was on hold temporarily until he worked out what to do with the whole… _everything._ But a year ago, he wouldn’t have dreamed of trying to figure out a surprise party for _anyone—_ well, maybe Elicia, but the idea definitely wouldn’t have come from him, and he wouldn’t be trying to orchestrate the entire thing while _at work._ He definitely wouldn’t be this unfocused (though planning a Christmas… _thing_ for the kid that was pretty much half-Riza’s already was an _excellent_ excuse to get out of paperwork). And he’d consider the very idea of taking care of someone like he took care of Ed now ridiculous—especially _for_ Ed. The Ed from a year ago was ridiculously self-sufficient and prideful. It’d be an insult to both of them.

But now…well, it might do well for the person who spent so much time afraid of being hated to see just how much people cared for him. And maybe Hughes was rubbing off on him just a little bit. Just slightly. Hell, maybe this had been his idea after all. Roy couldn’t quite remember at this point, though his best friend’s mischievous grin when he told him the plan had been _quite_ suspect…

Well, either way, the plan was in motion and the invitees had all gleefully thrown themselves into making sure it’d be perfect. Convincing Hughes to leave his camera at home had been the third-biggest challenge so far, convincing Winry not to show up a week early had been the second, and the first…the first was Ed’s intelligence and inherent curiosity. Of which there was a lot, considering how little of it he’d seen since his return—the latter more than the former, of course.

There was only so much he could hide at the office, after all. Sure, the presents were hidden safely in some lonely cupboards in the back of his room, but the phone calls couldn’t be placed on his office line. Outgoing calls were easily bugged, and Roy—well, maybe it was residual paranoia, but Roy wasn’t too keen on giving the higher-ups any reason, ludicrous or not, to try to take the brothers away. Not that they could, with the adoption papers in place. But if Bradley decided that Ed was more trouble than he was worth, he had no doubt the laws surrounding adoption by state officials would be mysteriously changed, or he would be deemed an unfit caretaker, or an unfortunate accident would befall him and Ed would be in the hands of a system that would use whatever sparks of brilliance he had left before discarding him.

And then there was the obvious “it’s supposed to be a surprise, so you can’t exactly do it where he can hear” aspect of the whole deal. Doing it in phone booths made him look shady enough as it was, but the fact that Ed was _this close_ to figuring it out made it necessary. It _worked,_ though the whole “smuggling presents under the tree” thing was trickier than he expected. Tree skirts (he hadn’t known those were a thing until Riza shook her head at the pine needles all over his floor and told him he was an idiot) were a goddamn _blessing_ and—

He was so, _so_ stupidly domestic at this point that it was ridiculous, and he cared so little that he was starting to worry.

“Sir?” He looked up from the makeshift gift-cupboard, closing it quickly as Fuery stuck his head in, his brown eyes bright behind his glasses. The master sergeant beamed. “You’ve got a visitor. Uh, visitors.” He glanced back over at the main room, his eyes brightening. “You might wanna get out here before the others call dibs.”

“Dibs on what?” Roy glanced back over at the cupboard, before carefully draping his coat over it. A few nudges to make it look casual, and no one would ever guess that there were at least a dozen presents for the Elric brothers inside. The office _knew,_ of course, but if his mysterious visitors were to come in, they’d see nothing out of the ordinary. He grimaced and headed for the door as Fuery beamed and bounced out the door. “Sergeant Fuery,” he called, following his subordinate out the door, irritation starting to well up in his chest, “you better explain what the hell you’re trying to…”

 Soulfire eyes beamed down at him, shining a warm, soft red, a leather hand waving at him and a palpable sense of mischief practically radiating off of the armor. Riza stood at attention, her salute as perfect and precise as ever, but there was a trace of amusement in her eyes that hadn’t been there the last time they’d both been in the office. The last time _he’d_ been in the office. A look that hadn’t been there in—

_“Reading again? Really?”_

_“Riza, I actually have to do work, remember? This is an apprenticeship, and if I don’t actually_ try _to learn, then poof! I’m gone.”_

_She’d laughed, sitting cross-legged on his table as he tried to make some sense of the notes he’d taken. He’d glanced up at her, and frozen, his breath catching in his throat as the sun gilded her blonde hair gold. Luminous amber eyes sparkled down at him as she rested her chin in her hands. “And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”_

_He’d gazed up at her wordlessly, utterly tongue-tied, before realizing what he was doing and turning red. Quickly, he ducked his head and grabbed for his pen again. “N-no, we certainly wouldn’t.”_

_“Well, if you_ insist _on doing this—” she’d hopped off the table, bare feet padding for the door. Roy turned to watch her as she paused in the doorway and grinned over her shoulder at him—“then I’ll make sure to grab enough strawberry scones for two.” Then she was gone, leaving only the square patches of sunlight streaming through the windows after her._

_Roy gazed at the spot where she’d just been moments ago, before dumping his head into his hands and groaning, his face aflame._ Aunt Chris _cannot_ find out about this…

…Fifteen years. Huh.

“At ease, Lieutenant,” he muttered, raising an eyebrow at her as she complied. “So. What brings you here?”

“Al found a lead on the search,” she said briskly, breezing past him for a filing cabinet wedged into a corner near her desk. She didn’t need to specify what search, Roy thought grimly, everyone in this room knew about the hunt for the people _(monsters)_ who’d taken Fullmetal from them. “I came to get the files for him.”

He raised an eyebrow at Al. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, Alphonse, but you decided to tag along because…”

Al managed to beam despite being a suit of armor. Roy swore that kid had superpowers. A range of incredible, terrifying superpowers, including _distinctly expressing human emotion as a suit of armor WITHOUT SPEAKING_ and _terrifying war-hardened generals into submission with tongue-lashings that rival Olivier Armstrong’s._ “Well, you know how it is—sensitive files and such, you can’t very well hand those over in an unsecure location, so…here I am!”

Roy felt the other eyebrow join its twin. “Uh-huh.”

“And, y’know, there’s certain things we can’t leave at home alone, so…” He beamed, stepping out of the way and revealing— _Ed._

Ed, his white coat hanging awkwardly off his small body, the red scarf he’d gotten him wound the lower half of his face. Ed, his eyes wide and his hands twitching in that nervous, unsteady way that meant panic was creeping in, but his jaw was set, his gaze surprisingly clear. He offered Roy a tremulous smile, arms wrapped tightly around Ree. “H-hi?”

Ed was…here. In the offices. Not panicking, not sobbing, not terrified—well, maybe terrified, but not to the point where the tears gleaming in his eyes were spilling over. “Hi, buddy.” He reached out a hesitant arm, unsure if he was going to hug him or ruffle his hair or just squeeze his shoulder, but Ed let out a wordless sound of pure _relief_ and wrapped one thin arm tightly around him, burying his face in his jacket.

Roy swept his arms around him without hesitation—and nearly laughed, recalling how hesitant he’d first been to hug the boy who’d once been Fullmetal. _How horrified would my past-self be if he could see this?_ he wondered, bringing one hand up to gently smooth his overgrown hair back as a slight dampness sank into the front of his jacket. “Hey, what’s wrong? You okay?”

_Of course he’s not okay, you idiot, he just walked back through his older workplace filled with soldiers who either resent him or pity him because he wanted to please you. You think you’d be better at this after two and a half months._

“U-uh-huh.” He looked down at Ed in surprise, watching as he tilted his chin up to smile at him, his eyes wet and red-rimmed. “J-jus’ loud. B-but—wanted t-to come. S-say ‘lo t-to—to ev’rybody.” He peered around Roy at the rest of the office, and he followed his gaze at it bounced from Breda to Fuery to Havoc to Falman. “Hi,” he whispered, and waved his flesh hand shyly, before squeaking in alarm as Ree tumbled to the floor.

Roy scooped the stuffed animal up as Havoc, his mouth stuffed full of sandwich— _when the hell did they get lunch?—_ waved back. “Hey, Chief!” he managed around the mouthful as Breda rolled his eyes with a snort. “Wanf shome friesh?”

“Havoc, at least _try_ to have some level of decorum when you talk to the kid,” Breda said dryly, waving at Ed. “Good to see you, Fullm—” Ed blanched at the title, and Al made a slashing motion over his throat, eyes bright with worry. “—uh, Ed.” He grinned over at him. “And I’m 85% sure that Havoc was offering you some fries, though who can tell since he has the manners of a squirrel on the verge of hibernation.”

Havoc swallowed—a truly monumental achievement, given how much food was in his mouth—and glared over at Breda. “Hey!”

“No, I can see it,” Roy drawled as Riza handed the files over to a beaming Al, the younger Elric glancing between Roy and his big brother. He raised his eyebrows in questions, and Al shook his head with a grin. “What d’you think, Ed? Fries or no fries?”

Ed blinked, edging closer to the desk with wide, wary eyes, Ree forgotten in Roy’s arms. He made sure not to let the stuffed animal dangle in his grip as Ed inched toward his former coworkers, Havoc’s grin stretching wider and wider as he did. Roy couldn’t help the worry beginning to burn within him at the sight. _What if he tries to tease him? What if Ed gets spooked? What if someone comes in? What—_

There was a squeak, and Roy looked up, eyes wide—and burst out laughing at his son as the boy’s golden eyes crossed, a fry in his mouth. Havoc grinned, poking Ed’s nose, and another squeak came from the small boy. He chewed it hesitantly, before beaming at the taste, delight written all over his face, and munching happily at it like a rabbit might at a carrot. He giggled as Havoc ruffled his hair, turning to smile delightedly up at Roy.

He lifted a hand to cover his mouth and hide his mirth as much as he could as Ed bounced— _bounced,_ eyes alight and his mouth a tiny _o_ of wonder, as though the single fry had somehow overwhelmed all his senses and shifted his entire worldview—over to him, looking the happiest he’d seen him since before the hospital. “R-Ree, Dad?”

“Sure,” he chuckled, biting his lip to hold back the cackles threatening to spill out of him as he held out the plush blue dragon. “Here you go, kid—”

_Dad._

Oh, god, he’d just called him—

_Dad._

Numbly, he let Ed take the stuffed animal from his grip, staring down at his quizzical expression as the word bounced around in his head. _Dad. He called me Dad. He called me—oh god, oh god oh god oh god. I need to call Maes, where the hell_ is _Maes, I need him right now immediately holy shit holy shit holy shit—_ Fire began to snap and bubble under his fingers, veins filling steadily with magma as the word turned into a snarled curse, into a plea from a thousand innocents, into—

“M’s-sorry!” There was a tug on his jacket, and he jolted, looking down to find Ed wide-eyed and trembling, his flesh fingers knotted firmly in blue fabric. His face was filled with contrition, worry, a hint of shame…but no _regret._ “I—I—m’sorry, d-didn’ w-wanna us’et y-you—” He swallowed thickly, fixing his gaze on his booted feet. “S-sorry, Da—Roy.”

_Oh._ So it had just slipped out, or…something. He hadn’t meant it, of course he hadn’t. Just because he’d sort of taken that role didn’t mean he deserved that title, or needed it. Or wanted it. It was over and now they could get on with their perfectly ordinary day, no worries, no issues, nothing.

_But what was he apologizing for?_ a voice that sounded suspiciously like Maes’s countered. _For startling you, or for saying it?_

Roy stared down at his—his _son_ as his shoulders start to shake, Al’s expression dropping to worry, Riza’s amusement fading to concern. He didn’t let go of his shirt, his grip remarkably tight, but there was a tiny, nervous sniffle that he knew meant tears were imminent. Which meant…

He _meant_ it.

And Roy—Roy definitely needed to call Maes _asap,_ but…he supposed he could roll with it for now. 

“What are you sorry for, kiddo?” He scooped Ed up, noticing with a flicker of hope that the task was slightly harder than it used to be, and grinned at him. Ed’s head jerked up, bright eyes meeting his, hope written all over his small face. “I’m right here.”

He lit up, eyes brimming with tears, and Roy let out a startled _oof!_ as Ed threw his arms around him, melting into his embrace. He held him tighter, closer, and closed his eyes.

His son was here, and everything was alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had to give you the dad-moment before I left on my hiatus! Hope it's enough to tide you guys over until my next update ^_^ Once again, I really am sorry, but this story will be on a hiatus until early November at the absolute latest. Thank you all so much for sticking with me through 35 chapters of pure hurt/comfort; your support means everything to me, and I'm truly grateful. Please leave a comment or a kudos on this chapter if you enjoyed it, and I'll see you soon!
> 
> Sincerely,  
> Addict

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Leave a kudos or a comment below! Reviews are deeply appreciated!


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